The Snitch Effect
by Baron Morpheus
Summary: A strange set of circumstances reminds Harry that there's more to life than goofing off with your best friend. Future Smarter/Powerful!Harry; HHr, future RWLL & NLGW. Title refers to the Butterfly Effect, because every single change in this fic is a result of Harry's crush on Hermione. Dead!fic, 'cause fuck beating a dead horse longer than I already have.
1. Part 1 - Episode 1

_Edit: Changed the Author's notes on this chapter and the next, which my idiotic younger self had made rather condescending on accident. _

_Sorry, offended people._

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**_NO MATTER WHAT I DO, THIS CHAPTER JUST WON'T. FUCKING. WORK._**

**_FUCK THIS SHIT._**

**_(Oh, and hi, new people, I'm The Baron of Shadows. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Kindly reserve your judging and flaming for when you've read beyond this, because this chapter, despite being the seventh incarnation of my original thoughts, is still nothing but horseshit. _**

**_That's all, thanks.)_**

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**The Snitch Effect**

**Part 1: Him, Himself &amp; Hermione**

**Episode I**

_"__Many a time, from bad beginnings, great friendships have sprung up."  
-Terence, circa 170 BC, because no beginning is as bad as the one to this fic._

_August 1st, 1993_

His desk, beaten, battered, and broken from having been in use for far too many years, clawed at his hand, setting the skin that touched it aflame as he tried to make his quill form coherent sentences, dancing across the parchment in only vaguely coherent lines as the soft scratch-scratch-scratch of the quill filled the otherwise deadly silent room.

He would prefer to have done this seated on his tiny, prickly bed, where cold, broken iron stuck out from its frame and neglected springs poked in his back at night as he tried to escape the horror of life and enter the relaxed bliss of his dreams; but only a few days ago, one side had finally given out, snapping in two from an overabundance of rust and sending him, dead-asleep, tumbling across the floor into the cold, hard wall of his cell. A tiny lamp, lighted by the barest left-over fumes of electricity, lighted his hand's path across the not-yet dry ink, smudging the text further into the realm of hard-to-read as his eyes tried to peer through the pungent fumes, thicker than smoke, trickling out from under his door; and impossibly, a grin started to stretch across his face as he realised that perhaps, what he was attempting wasn't as impossible as it might have seemed –

"BOY!" Vernon's thundering voice suddenly came from outside his door, and Harry flinched on reflex, quickly hiding his Potions homework – which he had been working on non-stop for the past twenty-four hours, desperately trying to get something that might grant him anything even close to vague semblance of a passing grade – under the big, fat Oxford dictionary he'd scooped up in Diagon the year before, in the vain hope of attempting to catch up with Hermione's impressive vocabulary. It had turned out to be a hopeless endeavour, but the dictionary itself made for a good paperweight. "The lawn hasn't been mowed since you've left for that ruddy school of yours, and I want it done before Marge gets here!"

"Wait, what?" Harry yelped, sprinting to his door. "Marge is coming?"

"Oh, didn't we tell you?" The smirk in Vernon's voice was _audible_, and when Harry opened his door to find his uncle standing only half a foot away, it was right there, obscured only by a large, disgusting moustache frankly fit only for a pig. "She'll be here by Saturday, so you'd best start cleaning up the guest bedroom too." Then, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb the size of residential London on his nephew, Vernon moved off down the stairs, rubbing his grubby little hands greedily. "Oh, I wonder what Pet's made for breakfast…"

With a pitiful groan, Harry shut himself inside his room again, sliding down against the door until he came to rest on the floor, suddenly feeling quite sad for himself.

"…I hate my life."

Oo0oO

Marge came through the front door a day of mind-numbingly dumb chores later with Ripper yapping at her heels and, as Harry pondered in the entrance hall over what he should call his mother's sister's husband's sister, deposited her trunk on his toes with a nasty grin. "Oh, I'm so sorry." Marge smirked, and Harry had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from lashing out at her in the first five seconds of her visit. "I hadn't seen you there. Move my trunk upstairs, would you? And call your uncle down while you're at it."

"Bint." Harry wanted to mutter, as he was quite sure that the quadruple-chinned behemoth wouldn't hear as he lifted the heavy trunk onto his shoulder, but he couldn't be a hundred percent sure, so he refrained. "Vernon?" He called into the living room instead, sounding about as civil as he could manage. "Marge is here."

"Ah, how delightful!" Honestly, Harry hadn't expected even Vernon to sound delighted that _Marge_ of all people had arrived – though he could distinctly hear Petunia's muttered curses from the bathroom as he lugged the trunk into the guest bedroom. "Good afternoon, Marge – Ripper – how are you – it's been so long!"

"That it has, Vernon." Marge's voice floated – rather, stomped ungracefully – up the stairs, and Ripper's barking conveniently masked the loud THUMP Harry made as he deposited Marge's trunk onto the floor. "Say, would Duddikins be around here somewhere? I have some presents for him in my trunk. The Boy is bringing it upstairs right now."

"He's out with some friends, playing in the local park, I'm afraid. But I'm sure that he'll like whatever you have once he gets home." Vernon chuckled fondly. "The little tyke likes his presents like he likes his food; aplenty! Come on, let's go and sit – we have a new couch I've yet to show you, custom-ordered all the way from America…"

Their loud voices faded as their owners left the hall for the sitting room, and Harry quickly retreated back into his room to hopefully escape the horror of Marge for at least one afternoon before they were forced to sit next to each other at dinner.

Oo0oO

Living with Marge could in Harry's opinion – though he might have been slightly biased in this – be equated to being a piece of paper on a roll of toilet paper. You never knew when you were going to get picked out, and when you did, you – and kindly excuse the ineloquence – got shit all over within moments. Only now, Harry was every single piece of paper on that roll, and Marge was using it up so fast a single day's worth of insults could've sustained an entire Third World city for a week.

Still, Harry felt that he had a right to be biased when the fat cow thumped around Number Four all day, ordering him around like an overgrown House Elf. Boy do this, Freak do that, do something you ungrateful mongrel – it was always something, and Harry rarely had any time to make his homework, of which there was still over half left to make.

The worst part was, undoubtedly, when he was forced to completely remodel the guest bedroom, to better 'fit her needs'. Apparently the bed, which she'd slept on for years, wasn't quite good, and needed to be replaced with a twin from the attic, which Harry was, of course, forced to get down by himself, without help; several couches and wardrobes had to be dragged down and back up, all because they 'weren't quite good', and by the time her lamp had stood in every square inch of the room at least once over the course of the three days it took to completely redo her room, Harry was quite fed up with the whole ordeal.

Unfortunately, the only thing chucking the damn thing at her head got him was the order to make a full five-course meal that evening, so that hadn't really been the best thing to do. Not that Harry cared. The loud SMACK it gave when hitting Marge straight in the face was reward enough.

The rest of the week was, perhaps not so surprisingly, much of the same. When Marge's room was done being redecorated – incidentally granting Harry muscles that _really_ shouldn't have come as quickly as they had – Harry had to spend the final four days constantly having to go up to the attic, where Marge's _massive _trunk was stored, bring it downstairs, take out one little item, show it to Petunia, put it away, and bring the trunk back upstairs, because it would 'clutter up the place' if it remained anywhere else for longer than half a minute.

It was then that Harry realised that Petunia did, in fact, like Marge, if only because when working together they could make his day all that much worse. Barely half a minute after he settled down into his chair again, Marge's bombastic voice rang through the house, and likely the neighbours' as well, sounding horribly obnoxious even from another floor. "Boy! Come and bring my trunk – I have some things to show Petunia!"

Harry sighed, closed the book he had been reading – _Defence Against the Dark Arts: Wounds, Water, and Werewolves _– in the rare moment of quietness he'd had, and went to do as ordered. Just as the trunk was downstairs and in the hallway, however, Petunia shrieked, "Never mind, Freak! Bring it back upstairs, Marge doesn't want it anymore!"

_Sigh_.

Oo0oO

And so continued the rest of the week. Marge wanted something, usually involving some kind of labour, Harry did it, and just as he was settled back in his room to continue his homework, Marge wanted something else, and the whole cycle repeated itself all over again. It was monotonous, mind-numbingly dumb work that left much do be desired in the fun part of things, but when the only alternative was to get thrown out onto the streets for the night by a vindictive Vernon for ignoring orders… well, it wasn't really a question.

Especially considering that Vernon seemed ready to throw him out if he as much as breathed too loud, having been high-strung ever since Harry's hair had suddenly started growing at an 'unnatural' rate. Of course, 'unnatural' for Harry was about average for normal people – it'd grown an inch or three since around when Hermione was un-petrified, near the end of May – but any change was bad, in Vernon's book, doubly so when it concerned 'freaks' of any kind.

Harry was broken out of his reverie by Marge poking her knife in his general direction. They were eating in the dining room, and Marge, taking up most of the free space in the room, was rather hard to miss every time she made a movement. "– This one's got a mean, runty look about him. You get that with dogs. I had Colonel Fubster drown one last year. Ratty little thing it was. Weak. Under-bred."

Ignoring Marge's blatant announcement of having done something illegal (namely, animal abuse and cruelty) Harry tried to stop himself from reacting by reciting his duelling book in his mind. Quite the boring read, but good for occasions such as these. _When dodging a fast-moving curse that has a slim, vertical shape (for example, a slashing curse with the wand motion being one from head to legs) one must always remember to –_

"–comes down to blood, as I was saying the other day. Bad blood will out. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia, but your sister was a bad egg. They turn up in the best families. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result right in front of us."

Fuming, Harry tried to remember another paragraph of the book, determined not to lash out. _A wide-spread curse at a diagonal angle is a difficult one to dodge. Should you be determined to dodge, and not throw up a strong shield like the Supreme Aegis, which is powerful enough to stop curses from all but the most powerful of wizards, both Light and Dark [see page 216 for wand movement and incantation], one must twist one's body at a perfect 45-degree angle, and jump off of the ground – this should result in a jumping spin dancing right above the curse. Of course, should such a thing be possible, merely jumping high or ducking low enough should work as well –_

"This Potter," Marge said loudly, "You never told me what – hic-scuse me! – what he did?"

"He – he didn't work," stammered Vernon, as Marge took a large swig from her glass, and hurriedly motioned for his wife to hand him the near-empty bottle of brandy. "Unemployed."

"As I ex- – hic! – expected!" Marge smirked, sounding like she felt quite superior. "A no-account, good-for-hic!-nothing, lazy scrounger who–"

"He was _not_." Harry hissed out suddenly, still glaring angrily at his plate, which had small cracks near the edges, a sure sign that he was losing control over his magic already; his pencil had cracked, too, back in second grade, when Mr. Gonzo felt the need to –

"More brandy!" Vernon yelled loudly, cutting straight through Harry's thoughts. "Pet, go fetch another bottle, quick now –" Harry himself was too angry at Marge and focused on reigning in said anger with what little control he had left to care what Vernon would do to him for interrupting Marge as he'd done. "You, boy!" The Dursley snarled at Harry. "Go to bed, go on –"

"No, Vernon," Marge disagreed, slamming another glass of brandy back. Petunia hurried to refill. "Go – hic! – on, boy, go on. Proud of – hic! – your parents, are – hic! – you? They go and get – hic! – themselves killed in a car – hic! – crash, drunk, I expect–"

"They didn't die in a car crash!" Harry bit out, standing up now, glaring at Marge through his longer-than-usual bangs.

Marge sneered at him. "They died in a - Hic! - car crash, you nasty - Hic! - little liar, and - Hic! - left you to be a burden on - Hic! - their decent, hardworking relati-Hic!-ves!" She was screaming now, glaring as hard as Harry was at her. "You are an - Hic! - insolent, ungrateful little –"

The woman was cut off by a loud rattling; the cutlery was shaking, making loud noises when they came into contact with the table and even louder ones when they hit each other. The windows were cracking, and loud, ominous creaking was the only warning the Dursleys got before an entire wooden wall broke into splinters, leaving them to look into the entrance hall with wide eyes.

Harry, meanwhile, was glaring even harsher at Marge. "Don't you _dare _talk about them like that!" He hissed sharply. "They were much better than you or your family could ever _hope_ to be–"

Marge, who, in her drunken state, hadn't noticed a thing was going wrong, stood up quickly, toppling the entire table and, by extension, Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley, over with a loud crash. "You – HIC! – little brat!" She screamed, red-faced, as her beady little eyes bulged in anger, glaring at Harry. "You should – HIC! – have just died with the – HIC! – the – HIC! – the whore you – HIC! – call a mother!"

Everything, absolutely everything, from the rattling to the Dursleys' breathing, fell silent. Marge was the only thing making noise, making heavy huffs and puffs. "_What_ did you just say?" Harry ground out, and Marge smirked cruelly, her hiccups all but gone now that she wasn't moving as much as she had.

"_Yes_, little boy, you heard me – hic! – right. That _bitch_ should have been – hic! – put down like the rabid freak she was with you still in her – hic! – womb. That way us kind, hard-working, good folk wouldn't – hic! – have to deal with you–"

Suddenly, the world erupted into noise. Wood exploded left and right, miraculously evading the Dursleys and Harry as it did so. Walls – _brick _walls – crumbled into dust, leaving nothing but astonished neighbours behind. Lights throughout the street, all the way up until Magnolia Crescent, shut down from the amount of raw magic in the air, flickering every once in a while. The second floor and, by extension, the roof, was held up by the back wall and the stairs only, wobbling dangerously every few seconds as the winds whipping around the house forced it to swing from side to side.

As all this was happening, Marge finally fought through the drunken haze, and stared at Harry, only now realizing what she had brought upon her and her family.

Harry wasn't fuming. He wasn't mad, nor was he angry, or merely irritated.

He was _pissed _the fuck _off_.

His hair, which now reached down to his cheekbones, was waving in a non-existent breeze. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, nails digging into his palm as drops of blood fell to the floor, and since when, a drunken Marge found herself wondering absently, did scars let out steam? Harry's eyes were clenched shut tightly, but when he opened them after only a second, they were glowing emerald green. And they were glaring right at Vernon's sister.

Marge hiccupped.

Not half a second later, she blew up – literally. Her entire body grew out of proportion, her torso becoming too big to fill the room, and she started floating up, even as her vest ripped open, buttons PANG-ing away from the purplish cotton and jumping around the room like ricochet bullets as her disgusting fat-rolls flopped out like a bucket of stale, month-old dough. Her pants started ripping and tearing, too, and for the sake of his mind, Harry quickly averted his still-glowing eyes as his disgustingly half-naked aunt started flying away on the gales carrying through the house.

Vernon, quickly shaking out of his stupor, sprang up and tried to latch onto Marge's foot to bring her back down, but to no avail – all he accomplished was being pulled up by Naked-Balloon-Marge. Petunia began screaming shrilly, Dudley fainted – though whether from the way his aunt looked under her clothes or from the magic, Harry didn't know – and Ripper, who had hidden under the table until that point, started barking loudly at Vernon, who was still refusing to let go, before biting into the fat man's leg.

Harry quickly realized he _really_ needed to get out of there before Vernon beat him into a bloody pulp, because he definitely couldn't do such a thing again to make Vernon float away – accidental magic, it's in the name. Harry ran up the stairs, ignoring the wobbling of the floor, threw everything that he saw haphazardly into his trunk – luckily Hedwig was out, delivering a letter to Hermione, and would undoubtedly know where to find him, she always did – before wrenching up the loose floorboard and carefully putting away what was left of Mrs. Weasley's birthday cake, making sure not to crush it under other stuff. Closing his trunk with a loud SLAM, Harry snagged up Hedwig's empty cage and made his way downstairs just as his uncle was coming out of the dining room with a trouser leg in bloody tatters.

"GO BACK IN THERE!" Vernon bellowed, face as purple as Old Hag Figg's living room walls. "COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!"

Harry glared at him with as much hate as he could muster – it worked out alright, from the way Vernon flinched back slightly. Then, he whipped out his wand, stored in his handy-dandy super-secure back pocket, and pointed it at his Uncle threateningly. "_Do it._" Harry hissed. "Try me. See if I don't harm you."

Vernon was spluttering at him, but cowering away from the wand at the same time. "Y-you can't do anything, Freak! Last year – letter – expelled –"

Smiling sweetly, Harry flicked his wand threateningly, and, when Vernon flinched back, said, "I have no problems with blasting you to the other end of this wall, you know. I'll get expelled from Hogwarts, sure. But that's not the only magical school around. Besides, what would the neighbours think if you suddenly came flying through their living room wall?" He smirked when Vernon drew back in fear, and unknown to him, his eyes flashed green again. "Good."

And with that, Harry was out of the door, leaving Vernon, Petunia, and a now-awake Dudley out on the porch to stare after him with wide eyes.

Suddenly, the house creaked loudly, and crashed down upon the foundations.

A few seconds later, the heavens boomed, and rain started pelting down upon Private drive.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, Aurors came to investigate the large amounts of magic released at Number 4 Privet Drive. One of them – who had pink hair that, even throughout the carnage, was looked upon with much disapproval by the Dursleys – tripped on arrival, and fired off a spell on reflex. It hit the Dursley's car, and the black sports car on loan from Grunnings went up in flames.

It was a bad, bad, day for the Dursleys, and all throughout the world, there was much rejoice.

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**IMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANTIMPORTANT**

**_For those wanting to point out that some of the stuff in this chapter - such as Harry's..._****explosive****_ reaction - isn't exactly a reaction to his crush on Hermione, IT IS. I've thought things through, and it _****definitely****_ is. Harry's scar has got to do with it, and if you think a little, you should probably be able to figure it out by yourself._**

**_All of the changes in this fic are either results of Harry's crush on Hermione, either directly or indirectly, or 'things Rowling decided not to mention', like the addition of new Alleys aside from Diagon and Knockturn, or Dumbledore's entire speech every year, warning first-years of the forest and stuff, which, in the books, was only mentioned for Harry's sorting._**

**_So if something doesn't make sense, then either try and see if you can't figure it out yourself (which, admittedly, might sometimes be rather more difficult than otherwise; just look at Snape's speech in first year, which, through the meanings of plants, referred to his relationship with Lily - what the fuck, Rowling), or wait until it gets revealed officially. Or ask me in a review. Whatever floats your goat, I suppose._**

**_Oh, and FIY: I LOVE REVIEWS. Reviews are awesome. I'll love everyone that leaves one. I'd give you all a hug if I could._**

**_...Unless you burst into flames and start hating on everything. Then I'll grab the fire extinguisher and shove it down your throat to get rid of the stick on the other end._**

**_But reviews equal awesomeness! So gimme, my adorable little readers!_**

**_-The Baron_**


	2. Part 1 - Episode 2

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**Part 1: Him, Himself &amp; Hermione**

**Episode II**

Harry growled angrily as he stomped through the rain, away from Privet Drive and onto Magnolia Crescent. All he could think was how much of a – of a plain and utter _bitch_ Marge could be. He would even have gotten Vernon to sign that bloody Hogsmeade permission slip ("If you breathe one godforsaken word, about – about – about your Freakishness –" his uncle had threatened, looking a foul shade of puce, before Harry managed to convince him that, perhaps, he needed some persuasion to stay true to his word instead of babbling on and on about magic) but she had to screw it up by bringing up his parents. Really, if she'd chosen to rage about something else – _anything _else, from his own freakishness to the nosiness of her neighbours in the past few months to Colonel Fubster not caring for her dogs as he should've – he'd have been good.

But no. But _no._ No, of course not. No way anything would ever go his way. And now, he'd have to do without Hogsmeade for the year (and likely for the rest of his time at Hogwarts), and an ugly, fat, naked aunt would be giving astronauts nightmares within hours. _Wonderful_.

Well, maybe MIR could pick her up before she started orbiting. Or not, and she could go all the way to Mars. Harry shrugged to himself, trudging further along the path next to the road. It wasn't like he was planning on seeing her again, after all, and if she did die and Harry was asked to attend the funeral, he could always send a nice congratulatory card.

(Of course he didn't think this way. Not really. Even if she was the worst human being Harry had ever had displeasure of meeting, Voldemort included, she was still family, in an odd, awkward, fucked-up kind of way. And he never could and never would want family dead, despite whatever past transgressions they might've had. But he wouldn't admit to that if it killed him.)

Still, the Permission Slip wasn't actually what Vernon had given him the most grief over. Ron, for all his kindness, had sent him a pocket-sized Sneakoscope, which, since it had no 'off' button, was constantly whirring and whistling whenever anyone other than Harry came close to it. Vernon had threatened, multiple times, to throw it out of the window, and the only reason he refrained was likely because the neighbours would, of course, ask questions – questions he didn't want to answer.

But even then, that wasn't the worst part of his summer. No, the worst part came when Hagrid's present, the Monstrous Book of Monsters, decided to _eat his homework._ That's right. A _book_ ate his homework. Somehow, Harry didn't think McGonagall would believe that particular excuse, no matter how truthful it actually was.

Honestly, Harry loved the man, but if Hagrid sent something like that ever again, he might have to clamp it around his beard just to make him realise that, no, dangerous things like that did _not_ make for good presents.

Now annoyed again, Harry sighed, setting his trunk down and plopping down on the lid. Honestly, he didn't know what to do anymore. He certainly couldn't go back to the Dursleys – at least, not without possibly sustaining grievous bodily harm at the hands of his uncle – and he didn't have a way to contact the Wizarding World–

That thought pulled him up short. Yes, he _did _have a way to head to the Wizarding World, perhaps to the Leaky Cauldron, to rent a room; the Knight Bus. Hermione had been ranting about it in the common room a few months earlier – _with her nose scrunched up cutely, as she always did when she ranted, and kindly fuck off now, thoughts, 'cause that's my friend you're talking about; and why do I even remember that conversation? _– because according to her it was a completely irresponsible way of travel, practically guaranteed to kill a couple dozen Muggles casually crossing the road a day. Harry hadn't picked up on why, exactly, it should be killing people, but it couldn't actually be _that_ bad, could it?

Whipping out his wand again, Harry flicked it at the street, and, half a second later – BANG!

The Knight Bus, somehow, looked exactly like how Hermione had described it. A gigantic, violently purple double-decker bus had suddenly pulled up on the previously completely empty street, brushing the tips of Harry's shoes as he flinched backwards ins surprise with its side while it lurched forwards, the hind wheels picking up off the ground as it slowed down with a speed that should have been physically impossible. A man in a battered conductor's uniform was hanging out from the open door casually as the hind end came down with a loud SMASH, smiling blandly at the seated Harry as he repeated his obviously well-rehearsed lines.

"Welcome to the Knight bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening." Shunpike then blinked, as if only suddenly realising what he was seeing, and peered down at Harry with a raised eyebrow. "Oi, wha'choo you sittin' down there for?"

Harry scowled at the rude man as he stood up and pulled out his wallet without answering. "How much for the Leaky Cauldron?"

Shunpike didn't even blink. "Eleven sickles," He said easily, "but for firteen you get 'ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an 'ot –water bottle an' a toofbrush in the colour of your choice. Galleon fer boff."

Harry, suddenly recalling that he hadn't had the time to grab his toothbrush from the bathroom, paid him fifteen. "Hold the water, and I want mine in red." Shunpike nodded, produced a bright red toothbrush from his back pocket, and accepted the offered money, directing him to one of the beds – _beds? – _to sit down on.

"Firs' time on the Knight Bus?" Shunpike asked amicably, and when Harry nodded, he grinned. "Well, I 'ope tha'choo enjoy 'em Muggle theme park rides, then. I 'eard it's a lot like this."

The younger Wizard blinked. That seemed unlikely because, again, how bad could it possibly be? It had to stay safe, didn't it?

Mere seconds after Harry sat down on one of the beds and managed to stuff his new toothbrush in his pocket alongside his wand, Shunpike (and Harry narrowed his eyes; the conductor looked much too happy now) shouted, "Take 'er away, Ern!"

With an ear-shattering BANG!, the bus suddenly shot off at what must have been a few hundred miles an hour, and the beds rolled around, crashing into each other as somehow the other Wizards and Witches on said beds stayed asleep, peacefully snoring away. Stan was reading the Daily Prophet, looking as if it were merely a minor disturbance every time the bus went around a corner while Harry had to hold on for dear life lest he fall off of his bed and be trampled by the others.

"Enjoyin' the ride?" Shunpike, the bastard, quirked a friendly eyebrow over his newspaper, and Harry glowered, digging his feet into the floor of the bus in an attempt to stop his bed from rolling, and for a brief second, it worked – then, the Wizard lying on the bed behind him slammed into him, and he was flying across the bus again, slamming into the wall across the way moments later with a loud CRASH!

Shunpike sniggered, nonchalantly flipping a page of his Prophet. "'Choo when the next stop is, Ern? An' 'choo know where we are, anyway?"

"Scotland." Ern answered shortly, and Harry goggled. "Fetch Mister During. We're nearing Aberdeen, half a minute, tops."

"Scotland?" Harry asked, baffled, as Shunpike moved away upstairs, presumably to fetch the aforementioned Mister During. "How are we in Scotland already?"

"Magic." Ern grunted. He didn't seem a man of very many words.

"There you are, Jeff." Shunpike smiled, leading an old, balding man along in between the rolling beds towards the door. "One Aberdeen, coming up." He clearly hadn't been expecting an answer, because as soon as the doors shot open, the green-faced Jeff was pushed outside, his cane following him a brief second later; then, as the doors slammed shut and with another BANG! the bus shot away again, the last glimpse Harry caught of Jeff was his cane smacking against the back of his head as he tripped over his own two feet.

"'Oo's up next?" Shunpike called to Ern as the quite possibly blind driver rounded a corner and wound up nearly crashing into a family of Muggles, before the entire bus jolted as a security measure activated and deposited them in the centre of the road again, going the same speed they were before.

Ern glanced at the small list taped to the side of his window. "…Miss Bog. Dublin. Central tube station."

"But – that's across the water, on another – another island!" Harry gaped at Shunpike, who looked much too amused. "How's that even possible?"

"Magic." Ern grunted again.

"How come the Muggles aren't noticing us, anyway?" Harry asked then, directing his question to Shunpike, who was reading through his paper again. He scowled at the man's smirk. "And if you say magic, I won't be held responsible for any damage your face might suffer from a high-velocity impact with my fist."

Shunpike laughed. "Nah, tha's got nuffin to do wif magic. Muggles are ignoran', see," He explained. "'Cause they don' know 'bout magic, they dismiss anyfin' strange as a trick o' the ligh', like a bright purple bus speedin' past wiv several 'undred miles an hour, or a sudden pop from a disillusioned Wizard or Witch tha's apparatin' 'round, which happened to come from a few feet away. Now, if someone tha' _does_ know 'bout Magic sees us speedin' past, even if they're Muggle, they'll know, 'Oh, the Knight Bus's goin' 'round again.'"

"And Notice-Me-Not charms." Ern grunted from his place behind the steering wheel, and Shunpike rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, those too, but I di'n' wanna get decked in the face for sayin' Magic, now did I?" He suddenly blinked at Harry, looking quite surprised. "Say, wha'choo say your name was? Di'choo even give it?"

"Seamus." Harry lied quickly, clinging on to the edge of his bed as Ern went around another bed, because telling a bus full of people that Harry Potter was sitting right there didn't seem such a good idea. "Seamus Finnegan."

Shunpike peered at his face. "Funny. 'Choo don' seem very Irish."

Just as Harry was trying (and failing) to come up with another lie, however, Ern inadvertently came to his rescue. "Goin' over water, now." He grunted, swinging the bus around to drive towards the sea, which Harry could see approaching from the distance very, very quickly. "Brace yourself."

Then, they were skipping over the water like a particularly well-tossed rock, and the entire bus started shaking up and down hard enough for Harry's teeth to start shattering hard enough that he felt like they were about to break. He couldn't even speak or yell abuse at Shunpike, who was still standing comfortably near the door, not looking the least bit disturbed by the fact that the bus was now skidding along the entire Irish Sea without any real protection should a whale decide that a giant purple bus made a perfectly fine snack. Not that whales came over there, but still, it was the principle of the thing – _and they still had to go back, too._

"This's always my favouri'e part o' the ride." Shunpike grinned, looking nearly sadistic as Harry glared at his insufferable face. "Always a couple people tha' need to be in Ireland for some reason or another."

"When's the next stop at the Leaky?" Harry managed to ask through shattering teeth, fervently hoping for this nightmare to be over so he could just go to bed and be done with things for the day.

Ern glanced at his list. "Couple stops." He informed him shortly, sounding as comfortable as Shunpike did. "Dublin, Snowdon Peak, then London."

"Good." Harry sighed in relief, and blinked when he realised that large, black rocks were already in sight. "Wait, that's Ireland?"

Shunpike glanced behind him, at the approaching cliffs. "Sure it is, Seamus." He shot Harry a puzzled glance. "Di'choo think we'd be takin' tha' much longer?"

"Well, yes." Harry admitted, glancing up at the cliffside that was steadily growing larger, and larger, and larger. He paled. "We're not going to smash into that, are we?"

"'Course not." Shunpike assured, and Harry sighed in relief. But the conductor paused, before amending, "Well, we will, bu' then the security thingies will jus' activate, an' dump us up above."

"Wait, what?"

Then, just as they were about to hit the cliff – BANG! The bus slammed to a stop, suddenly on a street in a place where it was incredibly rainy, and Shunpike leaned out of the side of the bus, looking completely unsurprised by this sudden development. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded – oi, 'choo do tha' for?" A smallish grumpy-looking man suddenly came stomping past Harry's bed and up the ladder, and Shunpike was left standing in the doorway, his hand closed around a pile of Galleons that hadn't been there before. Then, he shrugged, pocketed the money, stepped inside, and the doors slammed shut again. "One more for the Leaky; add 'im to the list, Ern."

Ern grunted, scratched something onto his list with a quill, and with another BANG! they were off again, shooting towards the cliffside once more, before another BANG! had them shooting upwards, over the cliff and onto the grass on top of it. "'Choo were sayin'?" Shunpike asked Harry, who shook his head, still clutching his heart.

"Nothing. I said nothing."

Shunpike smirked, clearly having deduced what Harry was thinking, but returned to his newspaper without another word. Harry blinked at the face on the cover, turning his head sideways so he could actually appreciate it. "Wait, wasn't he on the Muggle news?" He asked, pointing at the man, and Shunpike blinked, turning the paper around to look at the cover.

"I'd imagine so, wouldn'choo?" He asked rhetorically, returning to his earlier page. "You oughta read the Prophet more, Seamus. Black broke outta Azkaban, 'round a week ago, he did. Was all over the fron' page. Couldn't've missed it if you tried."

"Black?" Harry prodded, and Shunpike shot him a strange look.

"Don'choo know?" He sounded genuinely baffled. "Firteen years ago, Halloween. Sirius Black. Blew up twelve Muggles an' a Wizard, in broad dayligh'. Big trouble it caused, dinnit, Ern?"

Ern grunted darkly in agreement, somehow weaving the Knight Bus around a Muggle one even though the downtown street they were driving on was distinctly unsuited for such a thing – as in, it literally physically didn't fit, but the Knight Bus apparently didn't much care for silly things like physics.

"'Course, didn' help tha' 'e woz a big supporter o' You-Know-'Oo." Shunpike added, frowning. "No-one really knows why 'e wen' after tha' particular Wizard – Petty-something, I think – but I've heard 'e woz once friends wiv the man. Then, day after his Master's dead, he came 'round an' blew up the entire street just to kill 'im, an' then – 'choo know wha' he did?" Shunpike leaned forwards conspiratorially, as if he were about to tell some big secret; "He stood there as it rained bits o' Muggle, an' laughed. He laughed, as if those lives di'n' really matter, an' he hadn' jus' killed a baker's dozen worth o' human beings. An' when Aurors arrived, he jus' wen', still laughin' his head clean off. Mad, 'e was. Barkin' mad, wasn' 'e, Ern?"

Ern grunted in agreement, even as Shunpike shook his head, moving back to lean against his wall again. "Wasn' even a contest, at tha' point. Don' remember even seein' the trial transcript in the Prophet. Shoved straigh' inta Azkaban – highes' security level, course – without 'nother word. Good riddance, I'd say, wouldn'choo, Ern?"

"Aye." Ern shook his head. "Course, if he wasn't mad before, he'd be now. I'd rather hang myself than to ever even step foot in that place."

"They 'ad a job coverin' it up, di'n' they, Ern?" Shunpike continued, nodding along. "'Ole street blown up an' all them Muggles dead. I 'eard other Muggles 'ad to spend 'alf a month gettin' everyone's pieces together again, 'til there was 'nuff for a proper funeral. An' Petty-whatever, caught in the centre of the blast – mos' they ever found o' him was a pinkie, an' a lil' bit o' blood. The res' woz probably incinerated in the blas', wasn' it, Ern? Wha' was it they told 'em Muggles, anyway? Some kinda terrorist attack?"

"Gas explosion." Ern grunted, swinging the bus around into what Harry presumed was Dublin, as he followed up with, "Fetch Miss Bog, Stan."

"Right-o." Shunpike nodded, hopping up the ladder and out of sight. His voice drifted down from above, clearly not yet done with his story. "So now, Black's out, an' everyone an' their mother's ou' an abou' tryna catch him – Miss Bog? We've arrived at your stop – 'cause there's never been a breakout from Azkaban before, 'as there, Ern?" Shunpike prodded, hopping back downstairs, followed soon after by a pretty brown-haired young woman that looked as sick as everyone felt.

Ern, meanwhile, grunted darkly in agreement, swinging the bus around to hop off the highway – literally, because they smashed into the ground a few seconds later, skidding to a stop in front of an unassuming warehouse Harry knew held the way into one of the smaller but nonetheless important alleys of Magical Dublin. "There you go, Miss Bog." Shunpike none-too-gently shoved the woman outside, sending her chest careening after her seconds later, before slamming the doors shut, and, with a BANG!, they were off again, shooting back over the highway towards mainland Britain.

"Beats me 'ow 'e did it, really." Shunpike admitted, grabbing his Prophet from where he'd abandoned it, tucked over the rail for the curtains, to stare in puzzlement at Black's gaunt face. "Don't fancy me own chances against 'em Azkaban guards. Mind, I doubt 'e'd do any better wiv 'em, eh, wouldn'choo think, Ern?"

The bus suddenly lurched to the side, and Harry saw Ern's shoulder – the only part of him he could see – shudder violently. "Don't talk abou them casually like that, Stan!" Ern reprimanded, dodging around an approaching motorcycle. "Change the subject, unless you want me to run into a wall. Them guards give me the scare, and so bloody well should they you."

Harry blinked at the vehemence of the normally soft-spoken man, but before he could ask about it, they were skipping across the water again, and his teeth were shattering too loudly for him to be able to. Shunpike looked annoyed but complied wordlessly, folding up the paper neatly before it disappeared inside an apparently bottomless pocket inside his uniform.

The rest of the ride, all the way to the peak of Mount Snowdon in Wales and back down along the M40 to London, was spent without much more chatter as Harry attempted not to fall off his bed and Shunpike tried not to fall asleep at the monotonous nature of a night-time shift on the Knight Bus. Ern was mostly just busy trying to keep the Knight Bus from smashing into walls – not that that even seemed to be possible, given the way entire buildings jumped out of the way to allow for the bus's passage – so he said even less than usual, giving Harry quite a bit of time to think on his probable impending imprisonment.

He wasn't an idiot. He knew that, while magic was illegal to do outside of Hogwarts for anyone underage, accidental magic was exempt for that law. But so was House Elf Magic, and the Ministry hadn't seemed to care much about that, had they? Such, Harry reflected with a frown as Ern turned a corner and his bed slammed into the wall, was his situation as celebrity; praised and lauded for every little thing he did, but the second he as much as sneezed wrongly, he was the bad guy and nobody would ever believe otherwise (Heir of Slytherin, anyone?).

Perhaps Snape was right about one thing after all. Most of the population really was a bloody dunderhead.

Oo0oO

It was nearly half an hour after he embarked on his great cross-United Kingdom journey that the Bus finally arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. While the angry little man from earlier steamed away down the road with a strangely jolly pink umbrella, followed quickly by a plump Witch who rushed into the Leaky without even glancing at her surroundings, Harry had to take the time to lug his trunk out the bus, assisted by a reluctant Shunpike, who clearly rather would have preferred staying in the bus instead of venturing out into the rain.

When Harry turned to collect Hedwig's cage however, Shunpike was frozen, staring with wide eyes over Harry's shoulder. Then, Harry turned, and saw quite possibly the last person he wanted to see right then.

"Ah, there you are, Harry." Minister Fudge said, smiling gratefully at Harry's visage, and not for the first time that night, Harry cursed his luck.

Oo0oO

The Minister for Magic was a short, rather pompous little man, wearing nothing but a small, green hat and a horribly mismatched pinstriped cloak, pants, and deep bluejacket to protect him against the disgusting weather. He looked like he hadn't seen either warmth or a seat in half a year, and Harry had to stop himself from asking whether the Minister was alright, old as he was – it wouldn't really be a kind thing to point out. Plus, he had worse things to worry about than little things like that. "You've had us all in a right frenzy, you know that, Harry?" He said good-naturedly, but Shunpike suddenly spoke up, sounding surprised.

"Minister? Wha'choo talkin' 'bout?" He asked, tilting his head. "This's Seamus, this is. No 'Arry in sigh'." Then, he turned into the bus, sounding quite eager. "Oi, Ern, come out 'ere! It's the Minister for Magic!"

Minister Fudge smiled blandly at Shunpike, looking as confused as Shunpike did. "I'm afraid I don't quite know what you're talking about, Mr. Conductor." He said. "This is Harry Potter, not Seamus."

Shunpike peered at Harry's face, and blinked. "Blimey, you're righ', Minister! Oi, Ern, this is 'Arry Potter!"

"Who?" Came Ern's voice, sounding vague from within the bus.

"'Arry Potter!" Stan reiterated, stepping back inside the bus. "Righ' 'ere, wiv the Minister!"

"You're full of it." Ern grunted, before closing the doors. Shunpike balked, trying to stop the doors from closing, but it was too late, and, with a BANG!, the Knight Bus shot off, out of sight.

"That was a… colourful pair." Minister Fudge said diplomatically, sounding amused, before motioning towards the Leaky Cauldron. "Come on, let's go inside."

The Minister put a hand on his shoulder and Harry quickly found himself getting steered inside the Leaky Cauldron – not that he had any intentions to do otherwise. Still, he was dragging his trunk along by the handle quite heavily, and silently wondered why on earth the Minister didn't lend a hand and cast a featherlight charm on the trunk – but perhaps, he thought vindictively, the man was secretly quite sadistic and liked watching other people suffer. Certainly would explain why he just dumped Hagrid into Azkaban the year before without even waiting to give him a proper trial.

Meanwhile, Tom the Barkeep – Harry actually didn't know his last name; something to check up on later – opened the door to the Leaky, holding a lantern. Then, he blinked in surprise, before suddenly grinning in relief. "You've found him, Minister!" He said, sounding relieved, and Harry found his lips twitching despite himself. Tom was always willing to help everyone who came by; he still remembered that from the first time he visited Diagon, and Harry was fairly sure that Tom was more worried about 'Harry Potter' than 'The Boy-Who-Lived'. That was just… Tom. He just didn't do preconceptions. It was part of the reason why everyone in Magical London loved him. "Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?"

"Put on a pot of tea, would you, Tom?" Minister Fudge asked, and Harry nodded along, before stopping.

"Actually, could I have a glass of Butterbeer, maybe with a little Firewhiskey mixed in? I need something a little stronger than usual." He shot a questioning glance over his shoulder at Minister Fudge – because if anyone can give you permission to drink alcohol, it's the goddamn Minister – who looked startled for a second before nodding understandingly.

"Ah, but of course. After tonight's events…" The Minister left the sentence hanging there, as if it were a sensitive subject that Harry had blown up his Aunt like he had; instead, Harry could barely contain his laughter, and came out looking incredibly troubled instead. The actual reason he wanted this mixture was because he was incredibly cold – the Knight Bus, because of some idiocy, wasn't fitted with standard warmth charms – and nothing, he reasoned, will warm you up more than Firewhiskey; last year, a show-off seventh-year had taken a big gulp and spat out an actual fireball. Of course, he did end up in the infirmary for half a week afterward, but it still served to prove his point.

Tom, meanwhile, nodded in sympathy. "Yes, I heard about the incident from a few witches passing by a couple minutes ago." Harry's eyes widened at the speed of the grapevine, which Tom didn't seem to have noticed, as the aged Barkeep motioned to a hallway off to the side. "Shall I lead you to a meeting room?"

"Please do, Tom." Minister Fudge sighed in relief at the warmth of the Leaky, and cast a glance behind him, where Harry's trunk was sitting on the floor. "And could you take Harry's trunk to his room?"

"I'll do it myself, Minister." Harry grunted as he hefted his trunk onto his shoulder, making it a substantially lighter load to bear, before balancing Hedwig's cage on top of it. The Minister blinked a few times in surprise, clearly unused to wizards being able to carry any substantial weight, and Tom smiled approvingly, before entering the narrow hallway he'd pointed out earlier earlier, leading them into a small parlour off to the side. Then, Tom excused himself, before the Minister clicked his fingers, and a fire burst into life in the grate. Harry grinned. "Cool trick."

Fudge chuckled ambivalently, putting his hat on an empty chair's finial. "Sit down, Harry." He indicated one of the two large chairs – the kind you sink into to the point where you nearly disappear – by the fire. The bespectacled lad did as ordered and, after throwing his cloak over the back of the other chair, Fudge sat as well. "I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister for Magic."

Harry snorted. "Minister, everyone, their mother, kitchen sink, and dog knows who you are. If I don't need to introduce myself – unfortunate as though that may be – I highly doubt you have to."

Minister Fudge looked startled for a second, before frowning in confusion. "Unfortunate? Why is it unfortunate to be well-known?"

"Er –" Harry blinked to himself, trying to come up with an example. "Well, in a hypothetical situation, what would happen should you decide to spend the coming Sunday shopping with your wife and children, should you have any, just to have a nice and calm family day?" The Minister frowned.

"Well, apart from the fact that shopping with my wife is anything but calm and usually ends up with me broke and forced to accept more, ah – donations from Lucius Malfoy just to keep my head above the water tax-wise," Harry snorted, "I would more than likely get asked about the coming elections – which, if you are unaware, still two years away – about family members working in the ministry, if they are in danger of losing their jobs, and all sorts of other meaningless chatter that I know absolutely squat about. It's always rather annoying, really. Aside from that, I'll more than likely get targeted by the press, asking about the women walking beside me, asking if I am cheating on my wife – the women are, by the way, my eleven-year-old daughter and wife, which they always seem to forget every time I set out with my family – and–" The Minister cut himself off, frowning again. "Well, I suppose that I see what you mean."

It was at that moment that Tom silently came in again, an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea, crumpets, and a large glass of Butterwhiskey. He placed the tray on the table between Fudge and Harry, who nodded in thanks, before leaving as silent as he came, closing the door behind him.

"In any case, Harry, you've had us all in a right flap, I don't mind telling you." The minister sighed, reaching for the kettle. "Running away from your aunt and uncle's house like that! I'd started to think… but you're safe, and that's what matters."

Fudge poured his cup full of tea as he spoke, and Harry took a couple of sips of his heavenly drink, blowing a smoke ring with the little smoke that gathered due to the Firewhiskey (he'd overheard Dudley and his friends talking about the theory of it just that summer, when they were smoking cheap illegal cigarettes in an attempt to be cool. Ultimately, they'd decided it was too much trouble and abandoned the project. Didn't mean that Harry didn't think it a project worth spending time on, though). Unfortunately, the ring dissipated before it could really go anywhere, but the Minister seemed to have noticed, as he grinned. "Good show, Harry, good show."

He handed Harry a buttered crumpet, which Harry accepted gratefully – never mind the running away stuff, blowing up your aunt and house made you hungry – before taking one for himself. "You'll be pleased to know that the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad sent out have removed the knowledge of the incident and of magic from your family's minds. They will have no recollection of it ever having happened." Minister Fudge smiled at Harry, who nodded his thanks, somewhat grateful that Vernon wouldn't actively be hunting him down, now. "All that remains now, however, is to decide where you're going to spend the last two weeks of your holidays. Your family was, ah, less than eager to take you back for the remainder of the summer," From Fudge's frown, it wasn't hard to guess that Vernon had used some specific choice words during their conversation, the likes not shared in polite conversation, "so I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron. I asked beforehand, room eleven's free; if you're short on cash, I'll even pay for your first night." He offered. "No need for you to head all the way down to the bowels of Gringotts just for a single galleon, not at this time of night."

"Alright, I'll take that." Harry nodded, smiling gratefully at the Minister. "I'll have to take some money out of my vault tomorrow, so I might drop by the Ministry to pay you back later that afternoon, if that's alright."

Minister Fudge beamed, waving a wrinkled hand dismissively. "Nonsense, Harry! I'm more than willing to pay a few Galleons; no need for you to come all the way to my office for such little money." He chuckled heartily, clapping in a decisive manner that reminded Harry of a joyous child. "Excellent! I think you'll be very comfortable." He paused, as if hesitant to continue; "Just one thing, and I'm sure you'll understand: I don't want you wandering into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you're to be back here before dark each night." Fudge looked to be thinking something over, before he grimaced. "I originally planned to keep this from you as long as I could – ignorance is bliss, as they say – but there has been a recent escape from Azkaban."

"Yes, I heard, from Mr. Shunpike, the conductor." Harry answered, elaborating at the Minister's mystified face. "He had a copy of the Prophet. Black, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Sirius Black." The Minister nodded. "Voldemort's right hand, and…" Fudge shifted uncomfortably, his mouth twitching down into a frown, "The one who betrayed your parents to Voldemort."

Harry went completely still at that. Minister Fudge sighed. "Times were darkest, back then. Almost everyone was in hiding, hoping to survive. Aurors weren't doing much to the enemy Death Eaters, even with the help of an order that made lethal force – and, indeed, the Unforgivables – legal against anyone in a Death Eater garb. Nobody knew if their neighbours, their friends, or if even their own family members were on their side. Visits to see your girlfriend were interpreted as Death Eater meetings by paranoid siblings, someone who went to get a cucumber from a muggle market would disappear without a trace, and entire families were found dead in their homes by friends coming over for a cup of tea.

"From what I understand – though I must say that I am not well-versed in rituals, and this is most definitely a ritual – your parents were hidden under a Fidelius Charm. 'Charm' is actually a misnomer, as casting the Fidelius requires a lot of runes, a bit of blood, and a few potions ingredients. At least, this is what Professor Dumbledore told me. The reality might be extremely different, for all I know; the Fidelius is an obscure piece of magic, even more so than other rituals, which are generally only known by a rare few throughout the world. It would make sense that Dumbledore misinformed me, just in case I told anyone." Here, he paused briefly, attempting to collect his thoughts. Harry let him.

"What the Fidelius does is it hides the secret of a subject within someone's soul. That someone then becomes the Secret Keeper, and becomes the only one able to tell anyone that secret. Your parents, unfortunately, chose the wrong 'friend' to give the secret to; they made Black the Secret Keeper, and Black, in turn, told You-Know-Who where the Potters were." Minister Fudge's frown deepened. "The Potters, having been a thorn in You-Know-Who's side for ages – from your grandfather Charlus Potter, who almost cut off his head, to James, who managed a dead-centre Crucio in a fit of rage after his parents' death in front of him – were taken care of by You-Know-Who himself. The rest is history."

Minister Fudge sighed as he saw Harry staring blankly at him, his mind struggling to fully grasp what he had just been told. "Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me. I understand that you've been given your father's Invisibility Cloak – please don't abuse it." He gathered his hat and cloak and made his way to the door, patting Harry's shoulder in passing. "Goodnight, Harry. And, the next time we meet, call me Cornelius." Then, the Minister exited the room, closing the door behind him softly.

Harry stayed in the parlour until well past midnight, nursing his glass of Butterwhiskey as he stared out of the single window unto the rainy streets below, letting in Hedwig when she came tapping at the window.

Sleep, unsurprisingly, didn't come that night.

* * *

**_Why, I can already hear you cry out. Why on earth did Minister Fudge give Harry all that information, and how did Harry's crush on Hermione change that?_**

**_Lemme explain real quick, if you hadn't already picked up on it yourself. Harry, due to reasons as of yet unexplained, had a much worse outburst than in canon, which destroyed the Dursleys' house. Seeing as how it was rather difficult to wipe the memories of everyone who'd come to take a look at the destruction – and there would undoubtedly be a lot of people that came to take a look if your house suddenly crumbled into dust – they didn't remove that part of their memory, though they left the exact reasons for its ruin up for interpretation._**

**_Subsequently, the Dursleys were more pissed than in Canon, and, logically (not really), called Minister Fudge a freak and an unnatural whatever – you probably know their general thought processes at this point. Minister Fudge's conversation with Harry, in turn, took a different path, and when it came up that Harry had to stay somewhere… well, this is where it gets rather… vague._**

**_See, what I can picture Fudge doing here is that he sees an advantage and takes it. He can sink his claws into the Boy-Who-Lived – bumbling idiot or not, Fudge didn't get his position by being blind and naïve as well – potentially furthering his career, but only if Harry trusts him, however little. By revealing to Harry what nobody else did, he ensured that Harry would at least feel some sort of gratitude to him for revealing that, potentially leaving him open to the suggestion of accompanying him to, say, a Ministry Ball in the future, or perhaps give a short quote to the newspaper in Minister Fudge's favour when the next election rolls around._**

**_So yes, Fudge is still an idiot, and I'm still sticking to the all-changes-from-one-single-point angle. Like I said in the beginning, sometimes, you just have to look underneath the underneath._**

**_-The Baron_**


	3. Part 1 - Episode 3

.

**Part 1: Him, Himself &amp; Hermione**

**Episode III **

The next morning, early patrons of the Leaky Cauldron were treated to the dubious pleasure of spotting a dead-tired and only half-awake Harry stumbling down the stairs leading up to the rooms, looking rather like he hadn't slept at all the past night, which was surprisingly close to the truth.

Around three o'clock in the morning the night before, Tom, who apparently needed no sleep whatsoever, had checked up on Harry to find him still in the parlour, gazing out of the window, one hand absent-mindedly stroking an asleep Hedwig's white feathers. The kind man had immediately handed room eleven's key to Harry and ordered him into bed. Harry'd complied sort of on autopilot, and in the end the combination of going to bed so late and his wandering, rambling thoughts had barely granted him half an hour of sleep, if that.

As Harry stomped his way down to the bar with the graceful trot of a drunken elephant to get something to drink in the hopes that it would make him wake up, he didn't notice the wizard behind the bar levelling his wand at him, and got a blast of cold water in the face for his efforts. It served its purpose, however, and Harry became awake faster than Voldemort got disintegrated by his own Killing Curse.

He grunted his thanks at Tom, who was pocketing his wand, and shook himself with a vague grin – rather like a dog, Tom found himself thinking – before plopping down in the seat across from the barkeep. "Wouldn't happen to have a glass of water, would you?" Harry asked, scratching the back of his neck, and with a friendly smile, Tom grabbed one of his glasses, and with a flick of his wand, filled it to the brim with an _Aguamenti _charm (incidentally, water never cost a single Knut, since it was so easy to make for Wizards). "Thanks."

After taking a large gulp, Harry frowned. "D'you have a Prophet lying around, Tom?"

"Sure." A soft thud later, Harry found himself staring at the front page of the most recent Daily Prophet – _Black still at large_, it read, stamped across the top, with a big, moving, upside-down picture of Britain's most wanted right below, filling up half the page; a small article off to the side mentioned something along the lines of _Cauldron bottom standards changed again_, and _Arithmancy breakthrough gives revolutionary new blah, blah, blah_ – and he sighed, forcibly reminded of his conversation with the Minister the night before.

"Say, Tom," Harry began, inspecting Black's angry visage, "Was Black… was he a good man?"

Tom stiffened, frowning deeply. "…Why are you asking that?"

"I mean before he joined Voldemort, and everything." Harry clarified, glancing up at the barkeep. "I heard from Minister Fudge that he was – that he was friends with my parents, once." He shrugged uncomfortably. "I just figured that, you know, maybe they could've seen something, or… well, you know." Harry shrugged again, and when the silence began to stretch and he begun to think he'd asked something wrong, he was about to apologise when –

"…Nobody is born evil, Harry." Tom said finally, folding his shaking hands. "I have no doubt that, when your parents met Black, he was a decent person, if a bit unruly – Minerva has come along complaining about his merry band of pranksters often enough, if I remember." He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "It was probably a gradual change, slow enough that they didn't notice until it was too late, such as –" Tom floundered briefly, attempting to come up with an appropriate analogy – "such as when you grow, and you grow a fiftieth of an inch a day, and you suddenly hit five feet without even realising." He smiled grimly. "I don't think even Black himself realised it until he was already knee-deep, if I'm being honest."

"So – so there's a chance –" Harry tried, glancing down at the picture of what was really the only link he had left to his parents – "That maybe he didn't mean to do it, that it was an accident –"

"No." Tom's answer was flat, sharp, and blunt, and cold but still said so heatedly that Harry flinched back from the tone in his voice. "That's impossible. There's not an ounce of human left in him, Mr. Potter. That left him the second he joined Voldemort, and he's not going to change."

"I understand." Harry mumbled, quite humbled, and Tom scrutinised his face briefly before nodding in satisfaction.

"Good." He paused, glancing around the bar, before leaning down on the counter to continue their conversation in a slightly quieter manner. "Look, I understand that you are desperate for anything you can learn about your parents – my wife is an orphan, too, and she has frequently felt the same, I'm certain. But this man is a murderer. He killed thirteen people without remorse in one go, and I don't doubt that he'd do it again and again if his master were still alive, just to appease him, if not because he'd enjoy doing it. He's not going to sit you down, boil a pot of tea, and tell you about your parents as if they're still his best friends, both because I highly doubt that they'd have appreciated his treachery to the Light, and since you're the one that took down his Master, and I'd be surprised if he doesn't want you dead for that."

"Alright." Harry nodded, one corner of his mouth twisting up into a rueful smirk as he looked up at the man that had probably unwittingly saved him from an untimely death – knowing his own dumb self, he'd probably have tried to talk with Black should he ever meet him without having his face shoved in the facts as he had. "Thanks, Tom."

The barkeep winked, drawing back to accept an order from an impatient-looking green-skinned Witch. "Now shoo, I've a bar to run."

Oo0oO

It was a most pleasant day; the sun rising high at the horizon, imparting beatific rays upon the dozens of magicals strolling around Diagon Alley. A pleasant breeze drifted through between the large, ancient houses, and the large, ever-present dome of the Ministry of Magic building stood blinking in the far distance, past the residential areas and the shopping district in the dead centre of Magical London.

A fond smile dancing across his face, Harry strolled down the alley without purpose, letting his senses guide him forwards while his brain took a backseat. He'd only been to Diagon Alley only two times before, and the first time he'd been to in awe of the magical world to really appreciate the scenery, while the second time featured the Weasleys, and the less said about how much time he was actually able to browse before they were off again that time the better.

It was only now, when he had all the time in the world to truly _look_, that he found himself appreciating the true beauty of Diagon Alley, and the magical world in general. In the Muggle world, he found, there was always an underlying sense of hurry, as if time was the only thing that mattered and nobody ever really took the time to just stop and appreciate life as it was. But in the magical world, where people regularly reached the age of two hundred – Madam Marchbanks had, according to the prophet, reached the ripe old age of two-hundred-and-twenty-two not even three days ago, and didn't seem to be planning on keeling over anytime soon – nobody was really ever harried in any way, shape, or form, and casual acts of kindness, such as taking the time out of your day to enchant an old lady's groceries to float behind her until she got home, suddenly weren't so far off anymore.

Well, there was that, and – well, _magic._ It was two full years ago, now, that he was introduced to the magical world, and the novelty of it all had yet to wear off, and honestly, Harry doubted it ever would. There were still so, so many aspects of magic he still hadn't even heard more than a brief word of yet, let alone actually read into any – though that might have partly been his own fault, because as much as Hermione tried to get them to study, in the end, it really was up to him and Ron to actually do something – and he knew that, even if he literally spent the rest of his life in a library and became over five hundred years old, he still wouldn't be done learning.

Because magic was just so damn extensive that it was literally endless. Literally. As long as you know how to manipulate it into the correct form (spells, basically) you could do everything you wanted. Literally _everything_. One of the more interesting of Binns' lectures had been on an Arithmancer from legend, the most powerful one to ever walk the Earth, who could literally create spells as he went in the middle of a battle and reportedly managed to sling around giant elemental animals with a flick of his wrist, raise mountains and blast open gorges with a twirl and a mutter, and control Fiendfyre like it was a disobedient child without even trying.

And the stupid thing was, magical myths like this were more often than not nearly one-hundred percent correct, as magicals had found a way to convey messages and write down stories much, much earlier than the Muggles of that time had. But that was another matter altogether. The point was, there was _so much_ to the magical world that he hadn't yet discovered, it was simply ludicrous.

Well, Harry wondered silently with a curious quirk of his eyebrow, wasn't there supposed to be a library around somewhere? Hermione would certainly appreciate it if he chose to pick up a book once without having to be dragged kicking and screaming to the Library.

(Elsewhere, Ron suddenly felt a shiver crawl up his spine, as if something fundamental to the universe's continued existence was now compromised, and vowed to bring his best mate back from the dark he'd found himself in – though how he knew it was Harry's fault, he didn't know. Maybe because it was always Harry's fault. Bloody Acro-what's-their-faces were still giving him nightmares.)

Oo0oO

Half an hour later, and Harry was _annoyed_. He knew that there was a library _somewhere_, because Hermione had been gushing about it after the summer vacation the year before, only he hadn't been interested enough at the time to actually bother paying attention to where it was supposed to be. To make things worse, there were all of _no_ signs around to point him in the right direction, and nobody who he asked had an idea where it was, because, again, there weren't any signs. Anywhere.

It had been a whim, at the time. To just find the library, maybe browse for ten minutes just in case there was actually anything interesting in there, and then leave for a sundae at Fortescue's, who Ron claimed sold the best ice cream this side of the solar system. But now, it was past a passing curiosity; no, it had become a matter of pride, a contest to sooth what was left of his battered and bruised and already small but increasingly diminishing ego, because if Hermione could find it – well, perhaps that wasn't the best comparison, because Hermione was around a billion times smarter than he was, but still – then so could he!

Probably. Possibly. Maybe. He hoped. If the universe had pity on him. Which wouldn't happen, so he might as well just give up now.

Suddenly, however, Harry's thoughts were interrupted rather violently when he came face-first into contact with a brick wall, hurting his nose rather badly – though, upon further examination and judging by the sound it made on impact, it wasn't a wall at all. "Hagrid!"

Hagrid peered down at the little human in front of him. "'Arry? 'S that yeh?" Harry grinned brightly at his friend.

"Yup! I went here after – well, no doubts you've heard about that." Before Hagrid could express his opinions about that, which would undoubtedly lead to an uncomfortable conversation Harry didn't really want to have with Hagrid, no offense to him, Harry tilted his head to shade his eyes from the sun, before he asked curiously, "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, well," Hagrid looked as happy with the change of subject as Harry was, and didn't mention it. "Don' tell this to anyone, 'Arry, bu'," The huge man grinned, and came a bit closer to 'whisper', which was still as loud as normal talking for anyone else, "Came 'ere to meet with someone. Said 'e 'ad a few Hippogriffs for sale. Beau'iful animals, them. The herd at Hogwarts has dwindled by a lo', so, erm – I'm looking ter get 'em back on track, so ter speak." Harry frowned, thinking back to his first year.

"Are you sure that this isn't like with Norbert?" He asked concernedly, not exactly wanting a repeat of that particular incident, which resulted in him nearly dying at the hands of Quirrellmort. He probably would have, honestly, if the stuttering fool hadn't fled and instead just blew him apart with a Bombarda, instead of fleeing like an idiot. "You remember what happened…"

Hagrid shook his head immediately. "No' at all, no' at all! I've known this guy fer years. 'Es as trustworthy as they come."

"So he isn't some shady character in a pub who won't show his face?"

"Of course no'!"

The giant man sounded – and looked – genuinely outraged, and Harry shrugged. "Well, as long as you're sure." He looked around for a bit. "Say, where am I, anyway? I got a bit lost looking for the library, I'm afraid." Hagrid blinked in surprise.

"Eh? Vertic Alley, this is. Right o'er there's Gringotts." He motioned at some far-away speck of white, and Harry quirked an eyebrow; he hadn't thought that he'd walked that far, honestly. But there was still no bloody library in sight… Harry wanted to punch something.

He quickly shook himself, however, getting back on track. "Thanks, Hagrid. Sorry about earlier, by the way. I'm afraid I wasn't quite looking where I was going."

Hagrid chuckled, waving it away. "Tha'? I hadn' even felt tha'." Harry's other eyebrow joined the first up his forehead. Was the man half Giant, or something? Such a crash had to have bruised him, at least. "Got to go now, 'Arry. Hippogriffs to buy. I'll, erm – I'll see yeh at Hogwarts, right?" Harry nodded, smiling. "What electives did yeh pick, anyway?"

"Care of Magical Creatures and Divination." Hagrid grinned happily at the first, but it turned into a pained grimace at the second.

"Le' – le' me tell yeh a secret, 'Arry." He began, looking oddly serious as he glanced around shiftily. "Well, it's no' much of a secret, it's somethin' yeh need ter know. When I went to Hogwarts, Divination –" Hagrid grimaced again, "It wasn' a good course, tha'. Waste o' time, really. If I were yeh, I'd pick somethin' else, like Ancient Runes, or Arithmancy. I don' have anything against Divination, of course I don', bu' – well, it was jus' a bit of advice." Hagrid grinned again and walked past Harry, clapping his back softly, which was still enough to nearly send Harry sprawling across the floor. "Be seein' yeh, 'Arry! Try not ter get eaten by anything!" Harry waved at his back bemusedly, silently wondering what on earth had gotten into the big guy.

With a shrug, he set about exploring Vertic Alley, because if there weren't any libraries, there should at least be some bookstores, right? Right? …Right?

Oo0oO

Vertic Alley was boring, Harry quickly decided.

Where Diagon had large warehouses with enough wares to browse for hours without finding anything identical, Vertic had a ton of small shops that all sold the same stuff. Where Diagon had friendly cashiers always willing to help, Vertic had bored teenagers picking their noses and droning lines from a piece of paper. Where Diagon had shops where they sold Owls, Owl food, Owl cages, Owl treats, and Merlin only knew what other Owl-related supplies one might need, Vertic had shops where they sold Owls, and then they had shops where they sold Owl food, and other shops where they sold Owl cages cages, etc. Where Diagon was nice and tidy, Vertic was… Well, you get the idea.

There were a few interesting shops that simply weren't large enough to afford a place in Diagon, though, such as a shop that sold enchanted items – including a teapot which, when filled with water, would change flavours at random, and a broom that was made to dig instead of fly – and a shop that sold Magical Creatures; Harry spotted a Grim lurking in a corner, and a parrot with pink feathers and a neon-green Mohawk was happily chirping about Ragnarok and the death of Odin. Plus, Vertic Alley turned out to have its own smaller branch of Flourish &amp; Blott's, reminiscent of their quaint little branch located in Hogsmeade, where Harry quickly scooped up the remainder of his school books (including An Introduction to Ancient Runes, just in case Divination really was that bad) and briefly browsed through the book on Arithmancy before stuffing it back onto the shelves, because math? Thank you, but no thank you.

And thus, as Harry settled down in the single empty chair in his room in the Leaky Cauldron with the way-too-fat-for-its-own-good book on Ancient Runes, it came about that the Boy-Who-Lived was studying a subject for the first time without being pestered by Hermione or burdened by the unbearable evil of Homework.

Who'd have thought?

Oo0oO

Tom frowned as he drenched Harry in water with a simple Aguamenti for the second morning in a row, and once more, Harry gave him a thankful crooked grin as he plopped down in his stool. "What happened? Did you have a nightmare, or something?" Harry shook his head, making water fly everywhere, and Tom wrinkled his nose, realising he'd have to clean his counter all over again.

"Runes," Harry declared, "are boring." Tom raised his eyebrows at the unexpected topic. "At least – learning it is." The teen amended quickly. "I'm just about a hundred percent sure that once you actually understand what the hell you're dealing with, they're amazing to work with, but learning?" Harry pulled a face, and Tom's lips quirked upwards. "Definitely not."

"So you spent the entire night working on something you didn't even enjoy?" Tom asked with a slight smile, shoving the plate of sandwiches Harry had been about to order the kid's way. Harry nodded, clearly unsurprised by the barkeep's seeming omniscience as he took a bite.

"Yeah, but –" Harry swallowed, "I'm still going to take the course. 'Cause – did you know what I found out?" He took another bite and swallowed as Tom shook his head. "This," He tapped the scar on his forehead, "is a rune."

Tom's eyes widened, and Harry shrugged, taking another bite of his sandwich. "Blood magic is a course available in sixth year – not seventh, just sixth, as it isn't a NEWT course – to those who chose Ancient Runes. You won't learn how to practice it, of course, as it's highly forbidden by the Ministry, but you learn about the blood runes themselves, and while the Blood Rune alphabet uses the same runes as the Nordic one you use in regular Ancient Runes, they have other meanings. So even though I could look up what the Sowilō rune – oh, that's mine, by the way – what it meant in the Nordic alphabet, I still wouldn't have a clue what mine meant, because it's illegal to even learn about Blood Runes outside of official Ministry-approved schools, which, within Britain, includes Hogwarts, and that's it." Harry took another bite, frowning. "Of course, That's not the only reason I'm taking runes; it's rather interesting magic. Much more interesting than Divination, at any rate."

Tom nodded in understanding, and picked up his towel to wipe the top of his counter – using spells to clean everything would probably land him in a magically depleted coma within the week, and it would be quite detrimental to his business of he wasn't awake to man the bar, so it was best to do things the Muggle way when he could. "Just sleep well. You looked like a half-dead corpse when you came down – not a pretty sight, I'll tell you."

Harry chuckled and nodded. "I'm certainly not planning on doing it again – it's an incredibly tough read, and the only reason why I was able to keep going for so long last night was because, honestly, I was worried about my scar, and tried to find clues about it in the text, before I finally came across the section on Blood Runes." He grinned crookedly, taking another bite. "But the next time I decide to pull an all-nighter, I'll pay more attention to the time, I'll promise."

"That's all I ask."

Oo0oO

The remaining weeks of August passed in a haze of studying, homework, taking care of Hedwig, and (most importantly) eating himself sick on ice cream.

The first thing Harry did when Hedwig returned from hunting that second morning was to send a letter to Professor McGonagall asking for a change of courses from Divination to Ancient Runes – he'd opened the first page of the Divination course book and, seeing that everything was about reading tea leaves and looking into glass balls, threw it straight out of Room Eleven's open window. He didn't even want to bother with getting a refund, because it would be too much trouble for such a piece of trash.

After that, the only thing he still needed to do was to finish writing the idiotically massive History of Magic assignment on the Witch Burnings of some-century-or-other – it was about as interesting as watching bricks fornicate, and he didn't pay much attention to the specifics – and, after spending a week out on the front porch of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour shovelling down sundae by the bucketful as Florean, who apparently was quite the history nut, gave helpful pointers and somehow actually made a semi-lecture sound _interesting_ (though that might in part have had something to do with the free sundae, too) as he went.

Though the temptation was very, very high, aside from his original purchases, Harry made no others, other than the necessary school supplies, despite the alluring, shiny Firebolt that was simply begging to be taken along, and several other, even less important trinkets, such as a watch that would show just about everything _but_ the time, but, as Harry had to keep reminding himself, he didn't want to be like Ron's granddad and splurge the entire family fortune in one go, leaving just about nothing for future generations. Continuously buying meaningless – expensive – trinkets could go a long way to accomplishing that, and the sundae he was chugging down every day would probably do the rest.

As the days went by, he kept looking out for a sign of Ron or Hermione. Though he was able meet up with a few of his other classmates – Seamus, Dean, Padma and Parvati, Neville, Susan, even Tracey Davis from Slytherin – but he didn't hear from nor see either of his best friends until, in typical Weasley fashion, the very last day of the holidays, on August 31st.

Oo0oO

"Morning, Florean." Harry greeted jovially, hopping into the parlour with a grin. "Started making the Sunday Special yet?"

Florean was a roundish, heavy-set old man, who seemed to have a wardrobe consisting of a few hundred different shades of purple robes and very little else, and could never be bothered keep his giant mane of white hair tamed. He grinned happily at Harry as soon as he entered, showing off his rows of yellowish-golden teeth, and motioned to his display case with a wrinkled hand. "Take a look, old bean; pistachio-chocolate and, just for you, Butterbeer-elderberry. Why you seem so fascinated with the stuff, I'll never know."

Harry returned his friend's grin as he dug in his pant's pocket for his wallet. Every Sunday after Lunch, Florean made one or two rather unique combinations of sundaes – the rather aptly named Sunday Sundae – and some, such as pistachio-chocolate, were a massive hit, more so than even his other flavours. Others, like Butterbeer-elderberry, weren't really appreciated by most, but some, like Harry, were completely addicted.

("It's a taste only appreciated by the truly awesome." Harry'd explained a few weeks earlier, to a mother of three that had questioned his choice of flavours. "Only if you're one of the few able to comprehend its extensive, difficult tastes, you can be a part of that select group." Somehow, she didn't seem to have believed him.)

"Gimme an Extra Large." Harry ordered hungrily. "It's the last time I'll be able to appreciate it for the rest of the year, so I can do crazy once."

Florean laughed merrily, reaching for his sundae cups. "Why, so you never do so otherwise?" He asked pointedly, grinning, as he started scooping ice into Harry's bowl. "I think it was three weeks ago, now, that you ate six bowls in an afternoon – I still relish the look on my wife's face, when I told her to make another batch of the special – you should've seen it, Harry, you really should have –"

"Wait, Harry?"

Blinking in surprise at the familiar voice, Harry whirled around to find a speechless Hermione and Ron sitting at a nearby table with a pair of half-eaten sundaes, and inexplicably, his chest tightened; Ron's hand was frozen halfway to his mouth as a chunk of ice gathered on his spoon slowly slid, and slid, until it fell on the table with a dull thud.

As if a switch was flipped, Ron's expression changed from shocked to dismayed in less than a second as he gazed down at the lost food, and despite the loosening knot in his chest, Harry was unable to hold back a snort of amusement, grinning widely. Ron flushed, but was the first of them to let out a snigger. Then, the dam was broken, and they laughed, harder than they had for the rest of the summer; Hermione was still staring at Harry, a bit too flabbergasted to break out so easily.

Florean regarded them with amusement. "I see you three know each other?"

"You could say that, yes." Harry smirked, pulling out the seat next to Hermione's as Ron reached for a napkin to wipe away the lost ice cream. "Been friends since we were first-years."

"_Harry_?" Hermione repeated, looking quite lost. "But – what – how –"

"What is it, my hair?" Harry blinked in honest bafflement, reaching up to inspect a strand of hair dubiously. "I mean, if you think it's unseemly, I can always just cut it off, go back to what it used to be –"

"No, no!" His best friend yelped, before blushing embarrassedly as several of Florean's patrons turned to stare at her. She reached across from her seat regardless, however, and gave Harry a tight hug. "No, it's fine this way, honestly! It looks much better. But it's so good to see you – how was your summer? You look a lot better than you did at the start of last year, so it must've been good, wasn't it?"

Harry chuckled, ignoring his flip-flopping stomach to shoot a crooked grin in his friend's direction. "It was great, yes." He admitted, nodding. "I was free to do whatever I wanted for most of it –"

"You didn't really blow up your aunt, did you?" Said Hermione suddenly, sounding quite serious, though a slight smile was twitching at the corners of her lips, and Ron roared with laughter.

"I didn't mean to –" Harry protested quickly. "It was an accident – I kind of lost control –"

"It was all over the Prophet, you know." Hermione continued on, looking torn between laughing right alongside Ron and giving him a swat over the head. "The only reason it didn't make the headlines is because the picture of that escaped convict, Black, took up too much space. Boy-Who-Lived Blows Up Muggle. Honestly, I'm amazed you weren't expelled."

"Nice work, by the way." Ron grinned, trying to smother the remains of his sniggers. "Have to say, didn't think we were still capable of accidental magic. How on earth did you get off, anyway?"

"I'm still wondering about that myself." Harry snorted, nodding his thanks at Florean when the rotund man presented his sundae. "Thanks, Florean. Looks marvellous."

Florean winked at him. "Don't worry about paying – it's on the house today. Same goes for your friend."

"Really?" Ron's eyes were nearly popping out of his skull, and Harry and Hermione chuckled at the look on his face. Florean just smirked, before he moved back to the counter to accept another order.

"Anyways," Harry said quickly, changing the subject before Hermione gave in to the urge and actually favoured him with a slap, "where's the rest of the family? Managed to escape 'em for the day?"

Ron snorted. "I wish." He muttered around a spoonful of sundae. "Mum's still with Percy and Ginny in Flourish 'n' Blott's – we left a couple minutes ago," Ron elaborated, "and the Twins took off as soon as we stepped into the Alley; they're probably hiding out in Zonko's somewhere."

"And Mr. Weasley?"

"He's in the Leaky." Hermione answered with a shrug, Ron being too busy shovelling down some more sundae to answer. "We were there, too, before we went to buy our books."

"So –" Harry started, finally paying attention to the multitude of bags gathered at Hermione's feet, "Those are all books?"

With a slight embarrassed blush, she answered, "Well, I'm taking more new subjects than you, aren't I? Those are my books for Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, – hey!"

Hermione let out an indignant yelp when she realised Harry was had snagged and was now sifting through one of the bags, but she didn't try to take it back. He knew that all subjects – save Muggle Studies which, admittedly, he didn't know anything about – didn't require more than two books, at the most. So unless Muggle studies required twenty, she had a lot more. And indeed, there were at least five books on every subject. Probably for some 'light reading'.

"Hermione, you do realize that Divination and Ancient Runes, and Muggle Studies and Arithmancy are at the same time, don't you?" Harry frowned at her as he put the bags back on the ground. Ron, who had shifted through another bag and had come to the same conclusion as Harry, looked at Hermione questioningly.

Hermione blushed again. "Yes, I know, but Professor McGonagall told me she had a way around that if I really wanted to –"

"Yes, and do you?" Harry shot her a slightly worried look. "You're effectively doubling the amount of classes you have to take, here, 'Mione – you were all over the place during last year's finals, staying up until midnight to study, and I really _don't_ want to imagine you with nearly double the coursework."

Hermione shifted, uncomfortably pulling on the edges of her sleeves with a frown. "Well, yes, but we've no more flying now, do we?" She protested rather weakly.

"Doesn't mean that you didn't pick five extra classes to take." Harry returned, putting her bag back down onto the floor. "Plus, you were raised in the Muggle world. Why are you taking Muggle Studies?"

"Because it'll be interesting to learn how Magicals view the Muggle world!" Hermione replied, blinking like she was baffled he hadn't yet come to that conclusion. "They're always looking down on Muggles – most of the Professors don't even know how to pronounce electricity –"

"Well, if you read all those books, I'd reckon you'd get a pretty decent grasp on that." Ron commented, chewing ungracefully on what seemed to be a piece of fig.

Hermione looked slightly uncomfortable. "Yes, but I couldn't sit the OWLs then, could I?"

Harry nodded. "Yes you can. It's self-study. It's only allowed if you've displayed sufficient work ethic, but – well, you're _Hermione._" He smirked, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "I'm sure that, if you asked, Professor McGonagall would allow you just like that."

"…Alright." Hermione said finally, an odd little smile on her face as she gazed at Harry. "I'll think about it. Thanks, Harry."

"Oh, and while we're at it, Divination really isn't a good course –" Harry, who was perhaps feeling a little bit too daring, dared to venture, but Hermione just rolled her eyes again, still smiling, before taking out her purse from within her shirt and subsequently ignoring Ron's sniggers at Harry's dejected expression.

"I've still got a couple of Galleons left." Hermione frowned, putting her purse aside to finally eat her sundae again. "My parents gave it to me to buy an early birthday present for myself, because I'll be at Hogwarts in September, and they don't really have access to Diagon without me. But I don't know what I should get…"

"How about a pet?" Ron asked innocently. "I'm sure a nice and big, fat, slimy toad would go over well in the girl's dorm."

Hermione shot him a dirty look. "Honestly, Ron." She huffed. "Toads aside, that might actually be a decent idea. I want an owl, I think. I mean, Harry's got Hedwig, and you've got Errol –"

"Errol's not mine, though." Ron interjected quickly. "Dunno why you'd want anything even close to him, anyways. He flies at the speed of a rock."

Hermione shrugged. "Doesn't mean that I don't want a…" She gave her words a careful once-over, "…messenger bird." No need, indeed, to imply that she wanted something close to Errol.

"Well, if you want one, there's two pet shops in the alley; one over there, near Gringotts –" Harry, who knew the alley like the back of his hand after that summer, motioned towards the large marble building – "And another just over here. The closest one's more expensive, but it _is_ better." Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "It has a vet as well, who keeps the animals happy, which is why it's so expensive. I can get some treats for Hedwig while we're there, too."

Ron hummed thoughtfully, holding up Scabbers, who was looking pale. "Maybe I can get Scabbers checked as well, then – I don't think Egypt agreed with him. Maybe he ran into a boggart one of the times he ran off; they're supposed to like their tombs."

They finished their ice-creams – which Harry paid for, despite Ron's burning ears and Hermione's blushing half-hearted protests – and crossed the street to the Magical Menagerie.

The shop was… well, it was pure chaos. Cages hung, suspended from the ceiling, wherever they looked, housing tired-looking owls, and screeching parakeets, and ravens, and pigeons, and _toucans_, and all sorts of animals Harry was sure had to be magical that he hadn't ever seen before. Then, there had been entire walls built entirely out of cages and tanks stacked on top of one another; cats and toads and small dogs and snakes and snails the size of feet were hissing and barking and hissing on one end, and the other had been knocked awry by a man with actual goat-horns, who looked to be wrestling with his own arm over which owl to buy, but judging from the sudden approximate overpopulation of mice in the room, it seemed to have been one big, giant container that had burst open.

"Mornin', Potter." The Witch from behind the counter – Something-Something Carpenter, Harry recalled easily – greeted calmly, ignoring the chaos around her with ease that couldn't have been born from anything but experience. She took a slow puff of her cigarette, situated on the end of a regal-looking cigarette holder, and blew it out through the open window at her left. "Hedwig's not sick again, is she?"

Harry grimaced. A few weeks earlier, just after they'd arrived in London, Hedwig had picked up a flu of some sort, and had been an absolute nightmare for an entire morning, until he'd finally managed to wrestle her into her cage and drag her forcefully to Miss Carpenter, who'd somehow managed to calm her down within minutes. "She's not, thank Merlin." He chuckled. "No, it's Scabbers today."

"Scabbers?"

"My rat." Ron stepped forwards, ears burning as he held out Scabbers. "He normally looks bad already, but he's been looking steadily worse since we've come back from Egypt – GAH!"

Suddenly pale, Ron tentatively approached the counter, holding Scabbers tightly. "Madam? It's my rat, he's been – AARGH!" A huge, ginger-coloured missile suddenly came soaring from the top of the shelves behind the counter, landed on top of Ron's head, and then began scratching madly.

"I see you've met Crookshanks." Miss Carpenter sounded amused of all things, looking decidedly unconcerned at her customer's panic. Scabbers had shot between Ron's hands like a bag of soap, landed splay-legged on the floor and then scarpered for the door. Crookshanks jumped off of Ron and scampered off after Scabbers, before Hermione managed to snag it and somehow, within the span of a few seconds calm it down until it wasn't actively running after its prey any longer. Ron was running off as well, vainly attempting to snag a scuttling Scabbers from between his legs, and ended up tripping over his own feet twice before he shot out of the door after his pet. When it was quiet again, Harry sighed, facepalmed, and finally came over to the counter with three bags of owl treats, each enough to last approximately three months. Hermione was standing off to the side, petting Crookshanks and whispering calming words in its ear.

"I'll have this, then." Miss Carpenter looked over, and accepted the offered bags with one lazy hand.

"Right-o." Cigarette hanging loosely from one corner of her mouth, Miss Carpenter tapped the bags with her wand, presumably removing the safety spells with a spell of her own. "That'll be – ten Galleons, two Sickles, and eight Knuts." It was an odd number (not that the wizarding world was anything but odd) but Harry forked over the cash regardless, deciding not to pay too much mind to it.

"Well, have fun with your purchase, and do come again; more revenue, and all that." Miss Carpenter said dismissively, shoving the bag she'd put the owl treats in over the counter for Harry to grab. Despite the Witch's rudeness, Harry nodded his thanks – he still kind-of owed her for taking care of Hedwig, so he wasn't going to get mad – and turned to Hermione, to find her cooing adorably at the cat – _no_, cooing at the adorable cat.

"You like the Ron-hater, then?" Harry teased, sliding up next to her.

Hermione smiled at him, completely ignoring the nickname. "Yes, he's really nice. I don't know if it'll be wise to get him, though, with Ron and all. And besides, it would be kind of difficult to raise a cat in a place like Hogwarts. Owls can just fly out and, ah – do their duty in the Forest, but cats can't, not without significant risk." She frowned. "Who knows what lives in there?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm sure that there are spells for that sort of thing in the Hogwarts Library, and Madam Pince can easily point you to them. And as for Ron, I can't imagine him to be happy with you getting – Crookshanks, was it? – though in my opinion, you should get it if you want to, regardless of Ron."

"Really?" Hermione chewed her lip lightly – _and no, it didn't look cute at all, why would it_ – and glanced over at Crookshanks. "But – what if the rest of the year is going to be like this, with Crookshanks chasing after Scabbers and by extension Ron every chance he gets?"

"Then Ron leaves Scabbers in his dorm." Harry shrugged under Hermione's surprised look. "I mean, he isn't particularly attached to the thing, is he? Not like me and Hedwig, or even himself and Errol. The only reason he still carries it around is because it's an animal, and it would be inhumanely cruel to just dump it in a dark corner somewhere to forget about."

"Yeah, but still…" Hermione looked indecisive, and Harry turned to the witch behind the counter.

"How much for Crookshanks?"

The witch blinked in surprise. "You actually want to buy him? A single Galleon, then. He's been losing me customers left and right, constantly dumping dead mice on their shoes, or on the counter. I'll give you half off on the cage, too – twelve Galleons, eight sickles, fourteen Knuts, for the package."

Hermione opened her wallet and frowned. "I don't have enough…"

"Why don't I pay, then?" Harry suggested, bringing out his own wallet again. Hermione shot him a surprised look, and he shrugged. "I mean, I've a trust vault that I'm not using for anything, at all, and anything smaller than a house isn't really going to put a dent in it." He grinned at her, already seeing her caving before his very eyes. "And you can still go get something else, from Flourish and Blott's, or save the money for Hogsmeade."

That did it, and a sufficiently persuaded Hermione beamed, hugging Harry tightly. "Thank you so much!" She reached up and gave him a happy peck on the cheek, before going over to Crookshanks, who had wandered off to the other end of the counter.

Harry was still frozen in place, heart thumping almost painfully in his chest as a couple of pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell kind-of into place, so that it made sense but really, really shouldn't.

Because he couldn't really like his best friend like _that_, could he?


	4. Part 1 - Episode 4

.

**Part 1: Him, Himself &amp; Hermione**

**Episode IV**

Thankfully, Ron had managed to catch Scabbers just before he jumped into the sewage system, and while getting Houdini the Second a bit of rat tonic he was given plenty of time to argue with Hermione over Crookshanks; Harry just tried to tune them out and act like he wasn't actually their friend and merely another bystander who came by at the wrong place at the wrong time.

("That blasted cat of yours nearly plucked my eyes out!" Ron had thundered, looking absolutely furious, as they were exiting the Magical Menagerie, rat-tonic in hand.

Hermione shot the redhead a pitying look, then, one so belittling Harry was almost convinced that Ron really was _that_ much of an idiot. "Honestly, Ronald," She'd said, "With a mother as hawk-eyed as yours you really should have gotten better eyes – Scabbers clearly challenged Crookshanks –"

"How? BY BEING IN THE SAME BLOODY ROOM?")

From the passers-by's sympathetic glances, however, his plot didn't seem to work out too well.

When Harry, Hermione, and a red-eared Ron finally did make it back to the Leaky Cauldron, their argument having petered out along the way when Harry finally got fed up with it and threatened to tell Mrs. Weasley how immature they were being, they found Mr. Weasley sitting there, reading the Prophet. His eyes glanced up from his paper when they entered, but they stayed glued at Harry's face, peeking out from behind his long bangs. He looked baffled. "Wait, Harry?"

Harry chuckled uncomfortably at his incredulous tone, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck nervously. He had no way of knowing how Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would react to his new look in all its even messier-than-was-usual-ness, but – he glanced at Hermione – if it didn't look that bad, they couldn't be that mad either, could they? "Morning, Mr. Weasley."

"Merlin, it's really you, isn't it?" Arthur chuckled, sounding slightly disbelieving, before he grinned. "My word, you've changed a lot this summer! Had a good one?"

Harry's tight shoulders relaxed at Mr. Weasley's comfortable tone – though why he'd even worried, he didn't know – and he slid into the stool next to him with a nod. "Course I did. Tom took great care of me." He shot a grin at the balding barkeep, who handed Harry his usual Butterbeer without even asking, shooting the teen a wink.

"I heard about what happened with your Aunt through the Ministry." Mr. Weasley mentioned, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I – well, I suppose you found your way around the Alley, then?"

"Yes," Harry shrugged, glancing around to realise that Ron and Hermione had moved off to sit with their respective pets at a nearby table, and were glaring at each other, undoubtedly insulting each other under their breath as they did. Wonderful. "My relations weren't really approving of magic since they first learnt about it," and wasn't that the understatement of the century, "so they were probably happy to leave me be over here. I certainly don't mind."

"No, well, I suppose you wouldn't." Arthur smiled, looking even more uncomfortable now. Harry chided himself for bringing up Vernon and Petunia like that, but – well, there really wasn't anything he could do about it now. "Did you get what you needed?" He twisted around to direct this question at Ron, who blinked away his glare and stared back innocently.

"…Maybe?" He tried, and Mr. Weasley frowned at him. Ron hastened to explain. "I mean, Hermione kind of did my book-shopping for me. She just grabbed two of every book she took. I haven't actually, you know, looked through them." Now Harry and Hermione both looked contrite with him – Hermione even more than she already did, though how she managed that, Harry didn't know – and he quickly added, "But I'm sure she's done a great job! Really."

"I suppose." Mr. Weasley still looked uncertain, but before he could continue, but a flash of bright red caught their eyes, and as one, they turned to look; Mrs. Weasley had just stepped through the door, laden with dozens of shopping bags, with a gaggle of Weasleys filing in through the door behind her like little red-feathered ducklings. They all came over to Mr. Weasley, and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny gave him a peck on the cheek each, while Percy shook his hand pompously, nodding and greeting with "Father." as his Head Boy badge shone brightly in the artificial lighting; Fred and George stayed behind, whispering like they were planning a big prank which, knowing them, they probably were, but still spared a moment to give their father a wave.

"Had fun, dear?" Arthur asked, smiling fondly at his wife, before blinking like he'd forgotten something. "Oh, and guess who I just ran into?" He motioned to his side, where Harry had raised a hand in an awkward sort of wave. Mr. Weasley beamed. "Harry's here, too!"

There was a second of stunned silence, before Molly ran forwards and hugged Harry tightly, blabbering nonsense about looking good and finally having eaten well. Fred and George were sniggering at Harry's misfortune, and waved merrily when he looked over their mother's shoulder for help. Percy was looking on disapprovingly, like he did with just about everything anyone did, and Ginny was giggling behind her hand, not even spotting Harry when he looked at her for help instead.

"Mum? You're strangling him. I think he's dying." Eventually, Ron came to Harry's rescue, and Harry shot him a grateful look over his mother's shoulder. Molly finally released Harry from her hug, and looked him over worriedly when he started gasping for air.

"Oh dear. Should I take him to St. Mungo's?"

Harry quickly shook his head quickly. "No need for that, Mrs. Weasley. I'm fine." He quickly turned the other way to take another heavy breath, before turning back to the utterly unconvinced Weasleys. "Really."

"Well, if you're sure…" Molly still looked worried, not to mention guilty, but Tom quickly jumped in before she could forcibly start dragging Harry to the Floo.

"He's been through worse than that this summer, Molly." Tom chuckled, leaning on the bar. "You should've seen him when he arrived here. The Knight bus might be efficient, but it's not the most comfortable thing in the world."

A chorus of amused snorts and smirks suddenly winked into existence around Harry, and he scowled. "Hey, you try finding a valid means of transportation as an underage Wizard stuck in the Muggle World without access to the Floo network. I didn't really have a choice, now did I?" This only made the smirks and grins grow, and Fred was about to say something when Molly crashed their jolly little party.

"Settle down, boys, Ginny." Molly frowned at them, and everyone quickly shut up at her stern tone, suitably cowed. "We don't want to disturb everyone else in here, do we? Especially seeing how we're still going to eat." She turned to Harry and, suddenly sounding kind, asked, "Would you like to join us, dear? There's more than enough. Hermione already agreed."

"Gladly." If the promise of spending more time with the Weasleys and Hermione hadn't managed to convince him, the free food certainly did, and soon, the Weasleys, Hermione, and Harry were seated comfortably around a massive table in one of the Leaky's larger parlours.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to the summer vacation, and Harry snorted at them. "Well, if you think this'll be a short story, then you're in for quite the wait. But I suppose it all started a day before Aunt Marge was going to arrive, on the thirty-first…"

Oo0oO

And so, they were told about Harry's summer. He told the full tale, too, including the entire debacle of Black apparently being after his hide – though he left out the exact reason, because that was a tad bit too personal to share with Percy, or even Ginny and the Twins, and true to his expectations, they looked suitably unconvinced, though judging by George's thoughtful expression he suspected something was going on that he wasn't privy to – and his magnificent Escape from Durzkaban.

Unfortunately, Harry's story took up most of the dinner, and it wasn't until the start of dessert that they broached a new subject – namely, how they were getting to King's Cross the next day.

Arthur grimaced. "Well, that kind-of ties in with Harry's tale. We're going to the station with a couple of cars the Ministry has sent us –"

He was immediately interrupted by a surprised "Why?" from a baffled Percy, as the rest of the children around the table gaped at him – the Ministry cars were used extremely rarely, only in special situations, such as a foreign Minister for Magic coming to visit, or at a large international event, such as a Quidditch World Cup, for VIPs. Not for just anyone wishing to take a ride, national celebrity and entourage or not.

Harry, however, knew why; it was because of him, and Black. Nothing safer than the Ministry, right? Well, not really, but that's what everyone that worked there seemed to think. Sending Ministry cars would just draw more attention to them, as they dated back to the first World War, and looked more like museum pieces than actual working transport.

"…realize how much luggage you've all got between you?" Mrs. Weasley was saying as Harry tuned back into the conversation. "A nice sight you'd be on the muggle Underground… you're all packed, aren't you?" She was looking at Harry, and he nodded.

"Only the stuff I need tonight's left – including Hedwig's perch, and the rest of her stuff."

"What about the rest of you?" Molly looked in particular at Ron, who went to nod together with the rest of the children, mouth overflowing with sundae, but Percy interrupted with a sigh.

"He's dumped all of his new stuff on my bed. I can't even sit down anymore, let alone lay down to sleep." He glared at his younger brother, who finally swallowed his sundae and glared right back.

"You'd better go and pack properly, Ron, because we won't have much time in the morning." Mrs. Weasley called down the table, and Ron's glare morphed into a scowl, which, unfortunately for him, went completely ignored.

Oo0oO

Unfortunately, Ron and Percy had the room next to Harry's, number Nine. Normally he wouldn't have minded in the least, but they were arguing – and loudly at that – which made it rather hard to read, or sleep. Use of silencing charms was strictly forbidden by Tom for reasons he didn't seem to willing to share, so he had to set out himself and settle them down the old way.

"What's going on, Ron?" He asked sleepily, rubbing the blur out of one of his eyes, and Percy turned to scowl at him.

"Ron's gone and lost my Head Boy badge." He sneered down at his little brother, who was clearly fighting the urge to strangle him – rather like Harry himself, really.

"Go ask Mr. or Mrs. Weasley to summon it for you." He sighed at their surprised faces. "Or keep searching uselessly if you want to, just don't make so much noise." Harry dismissed, turning around to trudge back to his room. "Is common sense really that far out of reach these days?"

The question was directed at the heavens up above, but through the thin walls of his room he could distinctly hear Hermione's giggles, evidently having overheard their conversation, and despite how tired he was, he still smiled fondly at the sound – like a friend would and _nothing else_, so if his mind would please stop questioning him, that would be much appreciated, thanks.

Fred and George, sniggering away down the hall as they screwed with Percy's 'Bighead Boy' badge and heard Percy dismantle his and Ron's room, suddenly stopped and stared as it was tugged straight out of their hands by an invisible and suddenly flew down the hall, straight into Percy's hand; their older brother took one look at it, shrieked, and staggered back into his room like he was going to faint.

Then, they shared a glance, and laughed.

Oo0oO

It was the next morning, nearing eleven o'clock. In typical Weasley fashion, there was a ton of last-minute packing to do, and if that was partly Fred and George's fault for nearly shocking the Head Boy to death, then they weren't going to speak up about it; not to mention Ron's missing Rat Tonic, which had somehow found its way under the bar, and Percy's badge suddenly reading something quite different that, despite Arthur's best attempts, always came back a barely half a minute later. Nevertheless, they were able to enter the ancient wind-up cars at around half past ten, and, with a lot of fanfare, arrived at King's Cross fifteen minutes later.

Harry had been crammed into a car with Hermione, which was great, and Crookshanks, which was not so great. The ginger cat had been spitting through the wickerwork of his basket for the entire ride, despite Hermione's continued attempts at calming the animal down. Once they'd finally stopped driving, the Ministry employees unloaded their baggage for them – almost grievously injuring the hand of the unfortunate Witch that got to handle Crookshanks – and, completely ignoring the photographing Muggles, drove away with a silent wave to Arthur.

Upon entering Platform nine-and-three-quarters, Percy immediately went off to find his girlfriend, a Ravenclaw named Penelope Clearwater, with his chest puffed out and his badge – which was, unknown to him, reading Bighead Boy again – shining proudly. Everyone laughed silently at him, with the exception of Mrs. Weasley, who was busy whacking her children and husband over the head; but Harry could spy a small, amused smile on her face, so the deflation of Percy's big head apparently wasn't too unwelcome even to the usually overbearing mother hen.

When Harry and Ron were done stowing their and Hermione's stuff into the luggage rack, Crookshanks and Hedwig's cage included – Hedwig was flying ahead of the train – they went back outside, where Mrs. Weasley was handing everyone their lunch.

"Here you are, Fred – Percy, come back here – there you are, and you too, Penelope –"

"You really shouldn't have, Mrs. Weasley –" Penelope protested, blushing slightly as she accepted the package.

"Nonsense." Molly brushed her off, smiling kindly. "You're family now, even if you two break up later –"

"Mum!" Percy protested, blushing just as much as his girlfriend.

"Well, nevertheless – Ron, this is yours – George – Hermione, I know you don't really like bacon, so an egg sandwich for you –"

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Weasley." Hermione smiled gratefully, and Molly winked.

"Don't tell Ron. He'll probably try to take them from you."

Ron blinked at the mention of his name, and looked up from where he was already attempting to peel back the wrapping to take a peek at the food inside. He wasn't making much progress. "What? Egg?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperated amusement, and Molly smiled at her youngest son. "Never you mind, Ron." Ron blinked again, shrugged, and went back to his unsuccessful unwrapping. "And this is Harry's – Harry? Harry? Ron, where's Harry gone?"

"Hmm? Oh, he ran off with dad, over there." Ron shrugged, motioning to one of the pillars supporting the roof. "They're already heading back over, see?"

Oo0oO

"Here you are – Fred – Percy, come back here –"

"Harry?" Arthur said quietly, drawing Harry's attention to where he stood, a few steps behind him. "Come here for a moment." He jerked his head to a nearby pillar, and Harry, quite confused, followed him behind it quietly. "There's something I have to tell you before you leave – about Black –"

"I already know, Mr. Weasley." Harry interrupted, and Arthur blinked. "He's out for me, that much was all over the papers the entire month, but the Minister – he told me something else, during our talk the night that I came to Diagon. He told me –" Harry sighed. "Mr. Weasley, he told me that Black was the one to betray my parents to Voldemort."

Mr. Weasley flinched minutely, and nodded with a sigh. "Thank Merlin, I was afraid that I would have to lie – Dumbledore told us, when your parents died, and – well, you know that us Weasleys are horrible at lying. You've taken the information well, I take it? No new nightmares or anything?"

Harry shook his head, smiling slightly at his concern, and Arthur frowned. "Listen, Harry, I want you to give me your word."

"My word for what?"

"That you won't go looking for Black." Mr. Weasley looked oddly serious, more so than Harry had ever seen him. "Promise me, Harry, that whatever happens –"

"O-of course, but –" Harry stuttered a bit in surprise, "Why would I want to go looking for someone who wants to kill me, especially an adult? Even if he killed them, I still wouldn't want to what basically amounts to committing practical suicide."

"Thank you, Harry." Arthur sighed gratefully, and motioned to the train, and his wife and children standing nearby the red engine. "That – that makes me feel a lot better. Well, after you, then. Molly has made you some bacon sandwiches she's handing out, and I don't doubt that they'll be delicious."

Oo0oO

Mrs. Weasley turned around just as Harry and Arthur arrived at the group. She smiled, holding out a package wrapped in foil. "Here you are, dear. Two bacon sandwiches, for the journey."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley." Harry smiled gratefully as he slid the package into his school robes' inner pocket (why he hadn't went and bought a day-to-day set of robes yet, he didn't know, but anything was more comfortable than Dudley's hand-me-downs). Molly turned to her children, giving them – including Harry, Hermione, and Penelope – a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Do take care, won't you, dears?" She said as she straightened up again. She looked like she was going to say something else, but the train whistled loudly, and two uniformed, straight-backed Aurors started systematically closing the compartment doors with flicks of their wands. Molly made a shooing motion. "Go on, go on, before they close the doors, quickly now."

And as one, they all hurried inside the train and into the compartment right next to the door, where a boy around their age was already seated, completely ignoring their existence. Ron, Ginny, and Hermione immediately hung out of the window of the now moving train to wave at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Harry, unable to fit through the window alongside them, simply plopped into the seat opposite of the other boy, nodding politely. It went completely ignored.

When the train finally turned the corner and entered a tunnel, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione plopped down in the three seats not taken by Harry and the boy, who was reading a book and completely ignoring their presence. Ginny breathed out a sigh. "Yay! To Hogwarts!" She cheered softly, too tired from hanging out of the window to be overly loud. She turned to look at the boy. "Oh, I'm sorry if we came interrupted. I'm Ginny Weasley, nice to meet you." Ginny held out her hand to shake, but the boy only glanced up before dismissing it, choosing to continue reading instead.

"Nott. Theodore Nott." He sounded quite snooty, and Harry couldn't help but think that he'd fit in perfectly with Malfoy's little crowd. "And if you were truly sorry, you would've left already, instead of trying to make conversation."

"Oh." Ginny blinked, pulling her hand back. "Well, I thought I'd at least be polite."

"Being polite would imply that one either does or says something that is enjoyed – or at least appreciated – by both parties." He shot a glance over the company in his compartment. "This conversation is conceived as such by neither, judging by the looks on your faces. Reminds me of constipation."

Ron scowled, looking as annoyed as they all felt. "I get that we interrupted, but you don't need to be rude." Nott blinked at the redhead.

"Oh, I'm not being rude. I'm merely stating facts." And despite himself, Harry found himself admiring the other boy's enchanted indestructible Mithril balls – when you were smaller than him, Ron's angry-face was nothing if not intimidating, towering over you with that angry face as he did.

"Come, let's just go." Hermione attempted, standing up. "We'll leave him to his reading. I'm sure that there are other empty compartments."

Ginny and Harry stood up immediately after her, but Ron stayed, glowering at Nott. Harry sighed, silently motioning for Hermione and Ginny to step outside before him. "Ron, come on, let's leave. If he shows up with Malfoy later, we'll be able to get him then. Just leave it, for now."

His best mate stayed glowering for several seconds longer, before standing up abruptly and stomping past Harry, looking only a little bit less angry than he had. "Fine." He bit out, and Harry had to hide a smile behind his hand. Someone, it seemed, was a tad bit overprotective.

He looked back over to Nott, and frowned at the boy, who was ignoring the goings-on again. "…I doubt that anyone is actually your friend, considering how you act towards new people, so I should probably tell you that it's not a good thing to make everyone an enemy, accidentally or not, even if it might seem like it doesn't matter right now." Because he hadn't cared about his reputation in Privet Drive, at first. Then came the unwarranted blame, and the stares, and the wary glances. So it mattered.

"Why do you care?" Nott asked pointedly, finally looking up from his book, and Harry shrugged unrepentantly.

"I don't." He said. "But I'd still give you help even if you were a Malfoy that needed it. Hermione calls it a saving-people thing." Then, he backed out of the cabin, opening the closed door behind him. "I'll leave you be, now. Just give it some thought."

Then, the door slid shut, and he was gone. Nott, left alone in his compartment, snorted dismissively in the direction Harry had moved off into, turning back towards his book. What a waste of time.

Oo0oO

A few minutes later, Harry found his friends again stuffed all the way in the back, near the door to the luggage carriage, where someone else was already sleeping, covered with a black coat to protect him from the light.

"Hey." Harry greeted, slipping through the door with minimal noise. "Couldn't find an empty compartment?"

"It's all taken." Hermione shrugged, motioning for Harry to take the empty seat next to hers, which he did with a grateful smile. She smiled back, motioning up to the briefcase stuffed in the luggage rack above the man, and he glanced over – _R. J. Lupin_, it read, stamped across the bottom. "He's a professor, most likely."

"Better than a compartment full of Slytherins." Ron snorted.

Harry frowned thoughtfully, taking out the book he'd stuffed in one of his pockets that morning. "He's probably the new DADA professor, unless another professor retired."

Ginny hummed doubtfully. "Well, I hope he's up to it." She said. "He looks like one good bat-bogey hex could finish him off, doesn't he?"

"Looks can be deceiving." Harry warned (Ron was grumbling something about that Bill never should have taught her that spell in the background, but he ignored him). "Look at Professor Flitwick – he was a big-time duelling champion, winning on international circuits left and right, and on a particularly good day, he's even matched Professor Dumbledore." The entire compartment goggled at him, and Harry shrugged. "Granted, that's got more to do with the Headmaster becoming slower with age than the fact that he's as good of a dueller, and when using lethal magic, Dumbledore is, of course, much more powerful, because battle transfiguration is stupidly overpowered – but on an official duelling circuit, they're almost evenly matched."

"Really?" Ron raised his eyebrows disbelievingly, and Harry held up his book, one eyebrow raised. _A Comprehensive History of Duelling, by B. Bagshot._ "Oh." Ron's ears burned as he sank farther into his chair, accompanied by his friends' sniggers. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Anyway – since when do you read so much?"

Harry shrugged. "Since this summer. I didn't really have anything else to do."

Hermione smiled appreciatively at him, and he couldn't help but shoot a smile back; when he glanced back over to Ginny, however, he found her shooting him a strange smile that had him frowning at her in silent puzzlement, but she quickly turned back to Ron, who'd started on about the Chudley Cannons again.

"Speaking of books, have you figured out how to open the Care of Magical Creatures book?" Harry asked Hermione, who blinked at him in silent query. "I've bound mine with my belt, but – well," He coughed uncomfortably, "my pants keep sliding down my butt."

She giggled a little at his expression. "You stroke the spine." Hermione explained, taking out her own book. "It's rather symbolic, really. If you're kind to monsters, they'll be kind back."

"Try telling that to a Basilisk." Harry snorted, but shot her a crooked grin regardless. "Thanks, 'Mione." She smiled beauti– _no, fuck off, mind _– kindly at him. "Hagrid really should tell us these things."

"He wouldn't be Hagrid if he did, though." Hermione smiled.

After that, Hermione quickly started to read her own book as Ginny and Ron's brief argument devolved into a full-on hushed fight over which was better, the Chudley Cannons or the Holyhead Harpies. It was on all accounts a futile effort on Ron's part, trying to defend his favourite team, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try. This lasted well into the hailstorm that struck them halfway through the ride, and it was only interrupted – forcibly – when out of nowhere, the train suddenly started slowing down, and down, and down, until the pistons fell silent, and with a jolt, the train ground to a sudden stop. With a surprised yell, Ron flew all the way across the compartment onto Harry, and Ginny landed softly on Hermione with only a slight yelp from both. Then, as if things couldn't get any worse, the lights flickered, before giving out.

"What's going on?" Ron groaned, scrambling back upright. Next to him, Harry heard Hermione and Ginny do the same.

"I don't – ow!" Ginny gasped. "Ron, that was my foot!"

"How was I supposed to know that?!"

"By using your eyes, you mo-Ron! They're there for a reason!"

"Be silent!" Hermione hissed, and with only a bit of grumbling, the two Weasleys shut up, finally sitting down on their bench.

"D'you think we've broken down?" Harry softly.

There was a rustle of clothing – someone shrugged, perhaps – before Hermione spoke up. "I don't know… We're not at Hogwarts yet, are we?"

"We can't be – we set off only a few hours ago."

The compartment door opened suddenly, and someone fell inside, tripping painfully over Harry's legs. "Sorry! D'you know what's going on? Ouch! Sorry –"

"Hullo, Nev." Harry greeted with a grunt as he reached blindly into the darkness to grab Neville by the back of his cloak, pulling him upright shortly after.

"Harry?" Neville sounded confused. "Is that you? What's happening?"

"No clue. Sit down – there's an empty spot on the left of the door, near the window. Beware of feet, though, and the professor sleeping in the other corner."

"Right." There was quite a lot of shuffling, and then a grunt as Neville plopped in his seat. A few seconds later, Harry spotted his friend's vague outline wiping a bit of moisture off the window. "I think – I don't know, but I think I can see people coming aboard, with cloaks on."

"Can't anyone make a bloody light? I can't find my wand, must've dropped it." Ron, who'd apparently calmed down again, prompted agitatedly, and half a second and a muttered spell later, the end of Hermione's wand erupted into a soft, reddish light, bathing the entire compartment in a smooth glow.

Ron, now able to see again, quickly scooped up his wand from where it was lying under his bench, before standing up to peer outside along with Neville. "I can't see anything." He announced, drawing back. "Dunno what you saw, mate, but it's not there now."

"I'm going to go and ask the driver what's going on." Ginny announced, stepping over Harry and Hermione's legs to get to the door, which slid open once more before she headed outside; then came a loud thud, and two loud squeals of pain.

"Who's that? Luna?" Ginny asked incredulously as she rubbed her forehead.

The weird blonde girl she'd crashed against smiled dreamily, and Harry almost raised an eyebrow at the strange necklace of Butterbeer caps she was wearing before remembering that this was, in fact, the magical world, and for all he knew, they were inscribed with protective runes by her father as defensive measure against bullies. "Oh, hello Ginny." She sounded perfectly unsurprised, like she'd expected to bump into Ginny as she was skipping along the corridor.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Looking for Blibbering Humdingers! They're easier to see in darkness, you see." She smiled as if this made perfect sense, and in the background, Neville facepalmed at the terrible pun. Nobody else seemed to notice.

"What are Humdingers?" Hermione asked instead, sounding curious.

"Never mind that –" Ron interrupted, "Come in and sit down – there's people moving about the train, wouldn't be safe outside a compartment – the conductor would hardly be able to tell you anything the Professor here wouldn't, anyways, so Ginny, you should probably stay here, too –"

"Hmm? Okay!" Luna looked strangely happy, and quickly shuffled inside, shutting the door behind her and Ginny, who'd returned to her seat at her brother's urging. "But where do I sit?"

"On the floor?" Hermione suggested awkwardly, and Ron scrunched up his nose.

"That wouldn't be the cleanest, though, would it?" Ginny frowned, and opened her mouth to answer –

"Quiet!" Came a hoarse voice suddenly, stopping all motion. It was Possibly-Professor Remus Lupin, who was suddenly wide awake, and watching the proceedings with a frown. "And put that light away – it'll only attract them. I'll put up a smaller one. Quickly now!"

Looking quite bemused, Hermione did as ordered. "_Nox._"

Lupin whispered a rather long spell, and in his hand formed a small, blue flame that illuminated a lot less than Hermione's Lumos did, and cast rather looming shadows over his face. "Get further inside, Miss – Luna, was it? Take a seat, hurry up."

Luna happily slid into the seat just vacated by the Professor, who was left standing. "Stay where you are. I'm going to go speak with the driver." He walked to the door, and reached to open it – but before he could, it opened by itself.

In the doorway, illuminated by Lupin's glowing hand, loomed a disgusting creature, with pale, sickly green skin covered by a black cloak; it was more than likely what Neville had seen entering the train, only it wasn't human. At all. A mouldy hand was visible for a split-second, curling over the hem of the cloak, before it was retracted speedily, as if the creature could sense Harry staring at it and was strangely vain about not having put on the correct amount of make-up powder in the morning, or perhaps forgot to put on nail polish and was embarrassed about it.

It drew a heavy, rattling breath, and as thunder boomed in the window behind the creature, revealing its silhouette, Harry suddenly realized what it was; a Dementor, one of the guards of Azkaban. Why were they there, though, on the Hogwarts express? Was it for Black?

The Dementor turned his head towards Harry, and drew another breath – and Harry felt cold, colder than he ever had, as if it was seeping into his skin, into his chest – he was drowning in it, and vaguely, far away, there was a bright green flash, the exact shade he encountered looking in the mirror every morning.

"If Black isn't on the rest of this train, then he isn't going to be under Harry's robes either!" Lupin growled, flipping out his wand. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A giant, blueish-white wolf surged forth from the tip of the wand, straight at the Dementor; the hooded creature screeched in distress, a horrible, ear-shattering sound that made everyone clamp their ears, before it fled through the door, the corporeal apparition at its presumably non-existent heels.

Professor Lupin heaved a sigh. "Right. He's gone, thankfully." He looked around the compartment. "Are all of you alright? I like to think that I was fast enough to drive it away, but – well, you can never be too sure."

Everyone nodded tentatively, though Ron, Ginny, and Luna were looking really pale, as if they'd just met Aragog face-to-fangs, and distantly, he was aware that he must've looked exactly the same. Lupin dug around in his robes, and came up with a bar of chocolate. "Here, this should help. Make sure to split equally. You all look quite shaken, and I don't blame you." He handed the bar to Harry, who immediately began unwrapping the bar. "I'm off to speak with the driver, like I said earlier. If I were you, I'd put that light back on, Miss with the bushy hair – I'm afraid I don't know your name – until the power goes back on. Now, excuse me."

The professor strode past Harry and Ginny, sitting on either sides of the door, and headed off into the dark corridor.

Oo0oO

They didn't talk much during the remainder of the journey, not after Harry split the chocolate and handed it out; Ginny switched places with Ron to quietly share a comforting half-hug with Luna, Harry switched places with Neville so that the two boys could discuss the Chudley Cannons, _again_, Hermione took out a book on cat-care, and Harry found himself absorbed in his book on duelling history again, levitating it in front of him lazily.

Professor Lupin had come back in soon after he had left, only a little bit after the power went back on, and told them that it'd only be a little bit before they arrived at Hogwarts, and that Luna, who was still in her normal clothes, should start putting on her robes. Much to the embarrassment of the boys and annoyance of the girls, Luna had no problems whatsoever doing that right then and there, showcasing her pink, frilly underwear to whomever hadn't already turned away – and no, Harry had totally not managed a glimpse of that, of course not, because that would be completely amoral and an invasion of privacy, right?

Unfortunately, Hermione didn't seem to think so, and gave him a whack over the head. Luna didn't seem to think it was anything worth worrying over, though, which in turn made him worry about how often, then, she changed clothes in front of other people.

When they finally arrived at Hogsmeade, it was chaos all around as nearly a thousand students pushed and pulled their way around the tiny platform to get to their pets, stored in the luggage carriage, and/or stagecoach first. Icy rain was pouring down on them like nothing ever had, and some cats began screeching in distress, causing owls, toads, and other cats that remained unaffected by the rain to start making loud, angry noise as well; and over all of this, Hagrid was booming for the "Firs'-years" to follow him towards the boats, waving around a lantern dangerously close to some of the larger upperclassmen's heads.

After picking up Hedwig's cage and Crookshanks, who woke up as soon as they stepped outside and started screeching together with the others of his species – Hedwig swooped down from the trees above to sit on Harry's shoulder as soon as they stepped outside and went to sleep after casting an imperious eye around at her uncivilised peers, apparently deeming it all beneath her – Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna followed the rest of the school over the platform onto a rough mud track, where countless stagecoaches stood, each pulled by what Harry could only assume was a non-existent entity; more than likely magic, for when they climbed inside after splitting up – Harry, Ron, and Hermione in one, Ginny, Neville, and Luna in another – and shut the doors, it began to ride all by itself, joining the line heading to Hogwarts.

It was a quiet, if uncomfortable ride, swaying and hobbling from side to side, and multiple times Harry came close to knocking his head on the roof and had to duck to evade; he could only imagine what hell it would be a couple of years later, when he was too big to evade bonking his head on something. And so they went, the carriage slowly thundering towards a pair of huge wrought-iron gates, decorated with a beautiful dragon curled around the Hogwarts crest, past a pair of Dementors stationed directly in front of the gate, and onto school grounds.

The stagecoach sped up slightly as they headed across the large, grassy hill separating the gates from Hogwarts; Hermione was leaning out of the tiny door-window, trying in vain to spot one of the many turrets and towers before they came to the top of the hill, her wet hair clinging to her face, making her look extremely – _untidy, of course, and undignified, and totally not incredibly attracti-NO, dammit –_ and Ron was trying in vain to get the rain out of his wet robes and hair, bonking his head continuously on the low roof as he tried to do two things at once.

At last, the coach ground to a halt, and the trio stepped out, getting their first view of Hogwarts in two months; and as the rain splashed down around him, and Ron joined the black-and-white sea of students bounding up the steps to make sure his robes didn't get any more wet than they already were, and Hermione hurried on ahead, clutching her books to her chest to protect them from the rain, Harry realized that he was finally back home.


	5. Part 2 - Episode 1

.

**Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce**

**Episode I**

_"__Two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the former."  
-Albert Einstein, various_

Harry, Hermione, and Ron, having lost Luna, Ginny, and Neville in the chaos, joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, and into the cavernous Entrance Hall. Just for the occasion, it was lit by hundreds upon hundreds of torches, reaching all the way up to the ceiling, nearly four floors above; the magnificent marble staircase led all the way to the top, where it turned into some random corridor Harry didn't know the purpose of.

The Entrance Hall was black with students, all trying to get to the opening feast – to food – as quickly as possible. Ron and Harry had exactly the same idea, and they had just glimpsed the dark and cloudy ceiling of the Great Hall, and the empty goblets and plates on the four tables, each and every one of them a mouth-watering promise of what was to come, when –

"Miss Granger! I wish to speak with you!" It was Professor McGonagall, standing on the landing of the staircase. With a curious glance at Harry and Ron, she moved off, up the staircase and to the Professor, who quickly led them up the stairs and off into some random corridor.

When a bemused, not to mention worried, Harry turned around to face Ron, he found that the redhead was gone; instead, as Harry found out when he entered the Great Hall in search of him, he was already sitting at the Gryffindor table, knife and fork in hand. "Hurry up!" He was trying to spur people into taking seats, and failing rather spectacularly as all they did was glare at him. "People are starving here! Sit down already, I want to eat!"

Harry rolled his eyes as he slid into the seat next to his best friend. "You do realize you're only making them take longer, don't you?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe, but it's the spirit that counts!" He scowled at a passing couple, which was behaving quite intimately, apparently having not seen each other since school ended. "Oi, you can do that later, in the common room, after we've eaten! Sit down already!" The two glared at Ron, before shuffling off to find a seat. Ron grinned at Harry. "See? It works! Sometimes, at least."

"Well, not really, because now they're just doing the same thing only a couple feet away instead of here." Harry chuckled at Ron's disgruntled face, and grinned when Neville and Ginny joined him and Ron. "Hey, Nev, Ginny."

"Where's Hermione?" Neville asked curiously, glancing around the table. "I – I don't see her anywhere."

"She was called off by Professor McGonagall before we entered the Great Hall." Ron shrugged. "I dunno what for. I hurried ahead because _I'm hungry and I want to eat so sit down, dammit!_" He shouted the last part out into the hall, where people were still dallying about, seeking out friends lost in the shuffle and greeting acquaintances they hadn't met on the train.

Over the few minutes that followed, the hall slowly began to calm down, though it wasn't until the doors opened and Professor Flitwick came through with the first years, who were barely a head smaller than himself, that it quieted down fully. Ron leaned over towards Harry. "It's hard to believe that we were so small a few years ago, eh?" He whispered, and Harry nodded quietly in agreement.

Professor Flitwick stopped in front of the Hat, and the firsties followed suit; then, just as Harry remembered it from two years previous, the hat opened its brim, and began to sing.

"_Be you short or tall,_

_Or maybe large or small,_

_I am the hat_

_That is here to sort you all._

_My purpose is to choose the table_

_Where you will be sat;_

_I'd assure you that I'm cap-able,_

_But my puns already tell you that."_

Most of the people in the hall groaned at the terrible joke, and the Headmaster's eyes twinkled in amusement. Ron's snigger, probably the only one in the room, turned into an uncomfortable cough when their entire table shot him a pitying look for the demise his sense of humour had suffered over the summer break. The Hat's brim twisted into a humorous smirk, and he continued;

_"If you are academically able,_

_Hardworking, wise, and smart,_

_You might not be overly social; however,_

_Ravenclaw is where you will fit the part._

_If you are crafty and sly,_

_And always willing to reach for the sky,_

_A warm heart might be nowhere in sight,_

_But Slytherin is where your loyalties lie._

_If you are friendly, loyal and true,_

_And always ready to help out your crew,_

_Wise is one thing you are likely not,_

_But Hufflepuff is the place for you._

_If you are loud and brave,_

_And adventure is what you crave,_

_You can forget joining the House of cunning,_

_For Gryffindor is the home of such a knave._

_So put me on and meet your fate,_

_There's an entire world, lying in wait;_

_Straighten your socks, tighten your ties, and prepare_

_To begin this majestic adventure, if you dare."_

When the hat was done, everyone applauded loudly, and it bowed its tip, first at the first-years, then at the Hall in general, and finally at the Head table. Ron, meanwhile, had forgetting his earlier embarrassment and was groaning, clutching his stomach pathetically. "I want food." He whined, and in lieu of a response, Ginny reached over and slapped him over the head.

Professor Flitwick approached the stool with a large scroll, similar to the one Professor McGonagall had used. "When I call your name," he announced in his usual enthusiastic squeaky voice, "You will step up to the podium, put on the hat, and sit on the stool to be sorted."

He unfurled the scroll and allowed the butt end to drop to the floor, leaving only a little tuft of his hair showing over the relatively massive scroll. Ron and Harry both sniggered at the sight.

"Ballay, Winfred!"

Oo0oO

Fifteen minutes later, as the sorting finally drew to a close, Ron looked like he was close to standing up and claiming the area around his seat as a republic, where people wouldn't be deprived of food for large amounts of time; so when Dumbledore stood up after the last first year – a Hufflepuff – was sorted, he looked ready to shout. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily, undoubtedly having read the situation already.

"As you are undoubtedly getting quite hungry, I shall keep this as brief as I can. I welcome all of the returning students to another year of Hogwarts, and hope that our newest first-years will have a wonderful stay. For now, however, let the feast begin."

Ron let out a shout of triumph when a large dish of chicken legs popped up directly in front of him, and immediately began scooping his plate full, tearing a large chunk off of one with his teeth, before slurping up the fat greedily with quite a bit more noise than was warranted. "Pig." Ginny muttered in distaste, calmly cutting up a potato.

"Hey," Ron complained, mouth still full of chicken, "if you were starved, you'd eat like this too!" Little pieces of chicken flew across the table, before they were vanished from mid-air by an approaching Hermione, who wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Did I miss anything?" She asked, sliding into the seat in between Harry and Ron.

"Not really." Harry shrugged. "The Hat favoured us with a song, but that was all, really."

"Good." Hermione sighed in relief, scanning the table for "The salad, please, Neville?"

"What did Professor McGonagall call you off for?" Harry asked curiously, spearing a cut of steak on the end of his fork.

"It was a solution to allow me to take all electives." Hermione explained, loading her plate full of salad. "I told her that I decided to drop Muggle Studies, to self-study, like you advised." She flashed Harry a quick smile. "Then, she advised me to drop Divination, too, and I – well, I did, because in her words, you can only really learn something from that class if you have 'the gift', and if I did, I'd have noticed it at this point, so there really wasn't a point in using the item for just that, especially since I could learn just as much from reading Unfogging the Future." Harry grinned proudly at her, and she smiled back weakly. Clearly, dropping a class for any reason other than having the facts shoved in her face didn't sit well with her. "She told me that she would send it back."

"Send what back?" Neville spoke up suddenly, and when everyone turned to look at him, he flushed. "I-I mean, you don't have to say if you don't want to, but –"

"It's fine, Neville." Hermione reassured, smiling. "It's a little device that –" Hermione suddenly quieted, before frowning. "It –" She went quiet again, and she sighed. "So that's what that oath was for. I can't talk about it, apparently, because I swore to never purposely tell you about it. They're a very secretive bunch."

"Something from the Department of Mysteries, then." Ron concluded easily, and shared a knowing glance with Harry when Hermione found herself unable to answer.

Oo0oO

"Now that our hunger is sated and our thirst quenched, let us move on to other topics." Dumbledore smiled kindly. "First, let me welcome you once more to another year at Hogwarts. It is, as always, my pleasure to have you here.

"As you are undoubtedly aware, our school also pays homage this year to some extra-Hogwartians, if you'll allow me." The Headmaster chuckled to himself, before his face turned serious. "The Dementors of Azkaban are here on Ministry of Magic business. They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while we are host to them, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave the school without my express permission. Dementors are not fooled by tricks or disguises, or even Invisibility Cloaks –" He added blandly, not even glancing in Harry's direction, and the bespectacled Wizard had to admire the Headmaster's poker face – "and it is not in the nature of a Dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the Prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no students run afoul of the Dementors."

He paused, looking around the Hall again, before his serious face morphed into a proud smile. "On a more positive note, I am happy to introduce two new teachers to our older students.

"First, Professor Lupin has kindly consented to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts." Professor Lupin stood and bowed slightly, and there was some scattered applause; his shaggy, tattered robes and weary look didn't really inspire much confidence in the students that this year's DADA was going to be any better than those from the years before. Only those who had been in the compartment with him, and the Professors – save for Snape, of course – clapped hard, and Professor Lupin smiled at them, thankful that his introduction wasn't a complete failure.

"As to our second new appointment," Dumbledore continued as the already half-dead applause died away, "Well – I am sorry to say that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to ensure the further safety of his limbs; he has already lost two-and-a-half, and has no desire to lose the rest." A few of the Professors and the students that had been in Professor Kettleburn's class chuckled, but the others, including Harry, just looked around bemusedly. "However," Professor Dumbledore added, "I am delighted to say that his vacated seat will be filled by none other than our Keeper of Keys, Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at each other, stunned – because really, who could expect even someone like Dumbledore to hire _Hagrid_ of all people to teach anyone? – before they found themselves grinning widely. After a second, they joined in with the applause, which was quite the lot louder than Professor Lupin's, at the Gryffindor table in particular. Harry leaned backwards to see Hagrid, who was red in the face, staring down at his hands abashedly, a wide, happy grin hidden behind his shaggy beard.

Professor Dumbledore continued as the last applause – Harry, Hermione, and Ron's, of course – died away, while Hagrid was busy wiping his eyes on the tablecloth; "I should also warn first-years that the Forbidden Forest – the large forest on the grounds – is exactly that, forbidden, on account of the numerous magical creatures living in there that are most certainly not pleasant to observe.

"Furthermore, our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that all magic in the corridors while between classes is strictly forbidden, and that the list of forbidden items has been updated once more – the list hangs outside Mr. Filch's office on the west wing of the second floor. I advise everyone to check before they decide to spend their pocket money on toys, pranking material, or other objects that might get confiscated upon entering Hogwarts grounds.

"Lastly, Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams – available from second year upwards – should contact Madam Hooch, or, should you know who they are, your respective House's Quidditch Captain."

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled merrily as he observed the masses of students in front of him. "I would be singing the Hogwarts song with you all right now, but unfortunately, Professor McGonagall has forbidden me from doing so again as long as she teaches here." Quite a few people, students and teachers alike, breathed a sigh of relief, and Dumbledore's smile grew wider, the barmy fossilised sadist. "You will all need a night of good, Hogwarts-worthy rest before classes start tomorrow morning, so your Prefects will lead you to your Common Rooms, where you will find a most comfortable bed waiting for you.

"I wish you all a goodnight and pleasant dreams, and hope you all have a most pleasant stay at our institution – because I certainly will."

Oo0oO

"Here you are," George greeted as he handed Harry, Hermione, and Ron their timetables as they sat down at the Gryffindor table early the next morning, looking quite pleased. "The new third-year timetables. You're in luck – no potions until Thursday."

"Thanks." Ron said around a piece of bacon as he accepted it. "Divination first. Oh, and Care of Magical Creatures directly after! I bet Hagrid's going to bring us all sorts of awesome stuff."

"We've got Ancient Runes." Harry said, reading Hermione's with her over her shoulder. "Hey – why are Divination and Muggle Studies still on there?"

"Apparently the Time Tables are all made sometime late in August." Hermione shrugged. "Because I was so late with letting her know that I didn't want to take them, they didn't have time to make a new one. Do you have a pen? I'll just cross it out."

"Here." Harry fished a pen – Muggle-raised for the win, because even though they were banned inside classes nobody ever said anything against using them outside – out of the inner pocket of his robes, and handed it to her. "What are you going to do with the books?"

"I'll check them out, and if they're as bad as you suggested, I'll just send them back to Flourish &amp; Blott's, and get my money back. Honestly, you make them seem like they're the spawn of the devil." Hermione chuckled as she finished crossing the courses out, handing the pen back to Harry. Harry smirked in response.

Hagrid suddenly entered the hall, wearing his usual moleskin overcoat and swinging a not-quite-as-usual dead polecat from one hand. "All righ'?" He asked eagerly as he approached their table, still swinging the polecat; Seamus, sitting across from Hermione, had to duck to avoid the corpse, and quickly scooted over to a different spot, out of the line of fire. "Yer in my firs' ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up since five gettin' everythin' ready… hope it's okay… me, a teacher… honestly…" And Hagrid wandered off again, headed towards the staff table, not once getting rid of the polecat, or even stuffing it away to spare the students and teachers still enjoying breakfast the view.

"Ooh, I wonder what he's been getting ready?" Hermione asked eagerly.

Ron shrugged. "We won't know 'til lunch." He checked his timetable. "I'd better go – Divination's in the North tower, it'll take at least ten minutes to get there."

Harry hummed, checking his own. "Ancient Runes is on the second floor. We won't need to leave for a while yet. See you at Transfiguration?"

"Hopefully." The redhead replied cheekily, grinning, before moving off down the tables and out of the Great Hall.

Nevertheless, Harry and Hermione finished their breakfast quickly because, as Hermione noted thoughtfully, if they were up there before the rest, they could pick their seats, and ten minutes before classes were to begin, they left the Great Hall in search of the Ancient Runes classroom.

Oo0oO

Ancient Runes was rather boring, Harry found. Not the subject, definitely not, but – well, _calligraphy._

Professor Bathsheba Babbling, an excitable old witch with greying hair, was adamant that they should be able to write with a noble's hand, because, in her words, even an infinitesimal mistake could prove fatal to a beginning student. And thus they were going to be doing little other than calligraphy in the few months until Christmas, before they were even going to begin on the correct way to draw individual runes, which would take the rest of the year; and only at the start of their fourth year would they begin with the actual course itself.

Transfiguration was rather interesting, thankfully, as they learned about Animagus transformations; and apparently the Divination portion of the class had heard that Neville would be dying that year, in a horrible accident involving a creaky floorboard, a blue jay, and a sharp, pointy object of unknown size, material, or origin, so everyone had a lovely time teasing the poor brown-haired boy with animated wooden statues of birds and dancing needles (at least, until Professor McGonagall turned to reprimand them, when someone else on the other side of the classroom would take over).

After lunch, Harry was glad to be out of the castle; the sudden change to stuffy classrooms after nearly an entire summer outside was mucking up his brain to the point where it had become hard to think from lack of fresh air. Hermione and Ron looked much the same, and Ron wouldn't have been averse to rolling through the cool grass, just for a freshening up; only Harry gripping his shirt as he was sprinting away prevented him from looking like even more of an idiot than he already was.

Hagrid was waiting for his class outside of his hut when they arrived, looking quite impatient for them to start the lesson. Fang was lying quietly next to him, looking as bored as can be, though he perked up a little at the sight of the approaching children. "C'mon, c'mon, get a move on!" He called as the class approached. "Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin' up! Everyone here? Righ', follow me!"

Briefly, Harry thought that Hagrid was going to lead them into the Forbidden Forest, and show them how cute and fluffy Aragog and his children were; but then Hagrid strolled off around the edge of the trees, and a few minutes later, they found themselves outside of a fenced paddock – an empty fenced paddock.

"Everyone gather 'round the fence here!" Hagrid called, already standing on the other side. "Tha's it, make sure yeh can see."

"Invisible creatures, Hagrid?" Hermione sounded quite amused, and several in the class chuckled, Hagrid included.

"No, no, teh beauties' still comin'! No, firs' thing yeh'll want ter do is open yer books –"

"How?" Came the cold, drawling voice of Malfoy from directly behind Harry, who scowled. It seemed that Malfoy was determined to haunt his existence forever, having apparently picked CoMC as well as Ancient Runes.

"Eh?" Hagrid sounded quite perplexed.

"How do we open our books?" Malfoy repeated. He took out his copy of the Monster Book of Monsters, which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other people took theirs out, too, revealing quite a few ingenious methods; someone had stuffed it into a piece of underwear, another had taped it all over, leaving very little showing; a Hufflepuff Harry didn't know the name of had even flattened it between two other books, where it was still growling at her.

Harry made a show of rolling his eyes. "It's obvious, innit, Malfoy? Just stroke the spine." Malfoy scowled at him, but Harry completely ignored him; instead, he grinned at Hagrid. "They're awesome books, Hagrid, but if you want to use them next year you might need to include instructions, for those of us who don't have such good memory, and for the new third years."

Hagrid's lips twitched. "I will, 'Arry, thank yeh." He looked around for a second and, seeing everyone opening their books and taking their respective bindings off, cleared his throat. "Righ'. So, yeh've got yer books, and now yeh'll be needin' yer Magical Creatures. I'll go an' get 'em, hang on –" He lumbered off, into the woods at the other side of the paddock, disappearing beyond the trees.

Malfoy scoffed. "This place is going to the dogs. That oaf teaching here, my father'll have a fit when I tell him –"

"Hagrid might not be the best teacher," Harry said loudly, drawing straight across Malfoy and gaining startled looks from Ron and Hermione, "due to his lack of regard for what is 'cute' and 'horrendously dangerous and terrifying,' but he _is_ one of the most knowledgeable people in Britain, if not the entire world, when it comes to caring for magical creatures, which is what this entire class is about – something I doubt your father's preferred replacement would be." Malfoy sneered, but found himself unable to come up with an appropriate comeback. Harry smirked. "That is, if your father managed to get the lovely idea past Dumbledore in the first place. Plus, I mean – look at that." Harry motioned over to the other side of the paddock, where Hagrid was just entering, a dozen huge, beautiful creatures tethered behind him by several collars and a long metal chain, both ends of which Hagrid had clamped into one of his hands.

"Beau'iful, aren' they?" Hagrid roared happily. "Hippogriffs! The cream o' teh Hogwarts crop!"

Harry could certainly see what Hagrid was talking about – the gleaming coats, changing smoothly from feather to hair, each of them a different colour, from stormy grey, to bronze, to gleaming chestnut, from a pinkish roan straight to an inky black; they were a sight to behold, standing together, heads raised proudly, looking down at them with one gleaming, cunning orange eye each, like they were mere peasants in front of an entire pantheon of Gods of nature. The others in the class, however, seemed less inclined to agree, all taking half a step backward, seemingly largely weirded out by the entire half-eagle half-horse idea.

"So," Hagrid began, rubbing his hands together and beaming around behind his scruffy black beard, "if yeh wan' ter come a bit nearer…"

Nobody seemed to want to, shuffling awkwardly for the most part as they were unwilling to step forward, but didn't want to disappoint their soft-hearted teacher; Harry, however, stepped forward eagerly, and after about half an indecisive second, Hermione joined him. Ron stayed behind, content to watch from the side-lines.

Hagrid grinned at the two of them, jostling the chains slightly as some of the Hippogriffs jumped slightly in protest of two unknown humans coming close to them. "Good, good. So, firs' thing yeh gotta know abou' Hippogriffs is they're proud," Hagrid explained. "Easily offended, Hippogriffs are. Don't never insult one, 'cause it might be the last thing yeh do."

The entire class was watching attentively, some even taking notes; Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, on the other hand, weren't listening in the least, and were instead talking in an undertone, more than likely plotting over how to best disrupt the lesson. Hagrid frowned at his class, apparently having not seen them.

"I want yeh all ter understand tha' I won' be held accountable for any accidents, an' neither will the Hippogriffs." He gazed over the assembled third years, looking oddly serious. "I discussed thi' with Dumbledore an' Pr'fessor McGonagall, earlier, when Pr'fessor McGonagall brough' i' up, an' yeh shoul' understan' tha', in thi' class, if yeh don' follow wha' I tell yeh, it migh' have consequences – consequences yeh won' like. Animals aren' humans, they don' follow laws, they follow instincts. Instincts which include defending terri'ory, an' pack mates. Shoul' you threa'en 'em, or make 'em feel threa'ened, they'll attack, some'imes with fatal consequences. Dumbledore wasn' kidding when he sai' tha' Pr'fessor Kettleburn los' a few limbs over teh course o' 'is job. An' compared ter some others in teh business, he go' off lucky."

Some of them gasped, and most of them goggled at their teacher; a few even turned slightly green, or started shaking. Absently, Harry noticed Malfoy and his goons suddenly paying attention again, looking quite fearful. Hermione, he realised, was actually looking happy, and silently, he wondered if she had anything to do with this. Hagrid smiled gently. "However, if yeh trea' 'em well, crea'ures of any kin' can be amazing companions, an' the benefits far ou'weigh the risks. Those of yeh with owls, cats, or even toads shoul' know, righ'?"

A few students – those that hadn't gone deathly white, or had recovered already – mumbled slightly in agreement, Harry and Hermione included. Ron glanced doubtfully at his pocket, where Scabbers was sleeping, and stayed silent.

Glancing down at his book, opened on the Hippogriffs' page, one more time, Harry clambered over the fence without prompting from Hagrid, and approached the front-most Hippogriff, a (relatively) calmer grey one. Hagrid, seeing Harry's intentions, quietly slipped the collar off of it, and stood back a little, knowing that his young friend wouldn't attempt to do anything he couldn't – at least, not without another life at stake.

Calmly – or as calmly as he could, exposing his neck to an immensely dangerous creature as he was – Harry bowed deeply, looking up cautiously, still bowing, into the single large, intelligent eye that was visible from his position; the Hippogriff's head was turned slightly, causing the other eye to disappear behind the head.

Several of the other Hippogriffs protested slightly, and would have ran to attack Harry had the grey Hippogriff, the one that was holding a staring competition with Harry, not flared one wing, the one facing the other hippogriffs, in an unmistakable signal to stop, rather like a policeman raising his hand to halt an approaching car; it seemed, Harry mused silently, that his luck had struck again, and he'd accidently chosen the chief of the pack. The entire class couldn't contain a gasp, of course, and Ron cursed; though several Slytherins that shan't be named were looking rather expectant, very, very likely praying for something bad to happen.

Throughout this, Harry's eyes never left the Hippogriff's, scared as though he might have been, and after quite a few seconds, tense as the time he was being chased by the blind Basilisk, it folded its wing, bent its head, and approached Harry calmly, softly head-butting his chest with a loud purr. Everyone was stunned into silence for a few seconds, before a stupefied Harry brought his hand up and started petting it slowly, entirely disbelieving.

Suddenly, Hagrid roared with laughter. "Tha's exactly wha' I was talking abou'! Yeh always wait fer the Hippogriff ter make the firs' move. It's polite, see? Yeh walk towards him, and yeh bow, an' yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh're allowed to touch him. If he doesn' bow, then – well, yeh better get away quick. An' if he does tha'; well, yeh migh' even be allowed to ride 'im."

Quietly, a smiling Harry motioned a still wide-eyed Hermione over; with clearly shaking arms and legs, she climbed over the fence as well, and bowed tentatively, with closed eyes, too afraid to look; however, the Hippogriff calmly lumbered over and, just as she let out a soft whimper of terror, gave her a lick across her face.

With that, the class broke into cheerful applause, all except for Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were looking deeply disappointed, as though their ten-tier wedding cake had become projectile for a massive food fight.

"Righ' then, Harry, Hermione," Hagrid clapped enthusiastically, moving towards them. "Like I said, I reckon Buckbeak migh' let yeh ride him!" They'd heard Hagrid the first time, of course, but actually doing this was more than Harry and Hermione had bargained for. Hermione had a fear of heights, and while Harry was used to a broomstick, he wasn't sure a Hippogriff would be quite the same. You can't exactly control them by leaning from side to side, and there weren't any reins in sight either.

"Yeh climb up there, jus' behind the wing joint," said Hagrid, oblivious to their apprehension, "An' mind yeh don' pull any of his feathers out, he won' like that… It works kind of like a horse, riding a Hippogriff; softly hi' his flanks with yer heels ter make 'im go fas'er, an' tap 'is shoulders ter make 'im change direction."

Quietly, Harry put his foot on the top of Buckbeak's wing and hoisted himself onto his back. He held out a hand to Hermione, who was shaking her head and didn't accept it. "Oh, come on then, nothing ter be afraid o'…" Came Hagrid, who grabbed Hermione by her waist and put her just in front of Harry, who had scooted back a little.

Before Hermione could protest, Hagrid roared, "Go on, then!" and slapped the Hippogriff's hindquarters, sending it galloping forwards.

Without warning, twelve-foot wings flapped open on either side of them; they had just enough time to grab onto some feathers before they were soaring upwards. Harry had his arms wrapped around Hermione's waist, grabbing on to some feathers in front of her in order to not fall off as she screamed in fright. To Harry, it felt nothing like a broomstick, and Harry knew which one he preferred; the Hippogriffs wings were beating uncomfortably on either side of them, catching him under his legs at his shins and making him feel he was about to be thrown off; the glossy feathers slipped under his fingers and he didn't dare get a stronger grip, lest he pull them out, and instead of the smooth action of his Nimbus, he now felt himself rocking backwards and forwards as the hindquarters of the Hippogriff rose and fell with his wings, making his tailbone smack down uncomfortably every few seconds.

However, if you ignored that, and Hermione's non-stop screaming – at least, until she fainted checking how high up they were – the view was amazing, and Harry had much more time to look than when he flew on his Nimbus. The one o'clock sun, standing high and mighty above the Black Lake, cast a bright glow over everything; the water surface reflected the sun in a beam of light, carving a bright path straight through the dark waters. As Buckbeak took course for the spires of Hogwarts, they flew over the large cavern separating the Clock Tower courtyard and the Sundial garden, a huge stone circle rather like Stonehenge used to make sure the large clock was always correct, should it shift out of time sometime during the day; the small stream coming through the cavern shone brightly in the sun, reflecting the underside of the shaky wooden bridge that went over top.

Far out on the sides of Hogwarts not covered by the Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest loomed, looking dark and creepy even in this time of day; but then Buckbeak flew through a large arch, and Harry's breath was taken away instead by the main grounds, and Hagrid's hut, puffing smoke like it always did, no matter if the hearth was burning or not; and as they looped back around, and Buckbeak started landing back in the small courtyard they had taken off of, Harry got one last glimpse of the Giant Squid, surfacing with a small object grasped in its tentacle, its slimy black scales shining like polished silver, before the world disappeared behind familiar trees, and they were greeted by applause, and a happy Hagrid coming to help them down.

_So, so worth it._


	6. Part 2 - Episode 2

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**Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce**

**Episode II**

During the days that followed, things slowly resumed their usual course; Professor Flitwick was bouncing around the classroom on Tuesday, happily teaching his pupils how to cast an advanced cheering charm, while plants tried to eat people on Wednesday, and Snape tried to eat people on Thursday morning. Professor Lupin's first lesson was later that day, and nearly everyone, even the Slytherins, were anticipating an amazing lesson, as the Hogwarts grapevine had supplied that they would meet all sorts of interesting creatures, from Trolls to Giants to Little Red Riding and Robin Hoods – though Harry suspected that last one came from the twins, with the way they were sniggering every time it came by.

The Professor wasn't there when they arrived at the classroom; the door was open, however, and everyone took that as an invitation to sit down and make themselves comfortable. Everyone was happily chatting away with their neighbours – or exchanging insults, as was the case with Seamus and Dean, who were each claiming the other fucked up their potion earlier that day, which had garnered a withering look and a T from Snape – when he came in, looking much better than he had during the train ride, smiling vaguely and waving his wand to close his student's books, most of which were already open on the first page. "You shan't be needing your books today – nor your ink and quills." Lupin said, still smiling as he placing his tattered old briefcase on the teacher's desk. "You'll only need your wands."

With a few curious glances, the class did as ordered, for the most part even more eager than before – though a few of the Slytherins were complaining quietly that they had to do something other than read and take notes – as they'd never had a full practical lesson of DADA before, excluding the times they were forced to re-enact one of Lockhart's books, and when he brought in the Cornish Pixies; the first-year curriculum was mostly focused around introducing the various areas of Defence, with only a dozen or so actual spells spread out throughout the entire year, taking up less than ten minutes in the lessons they were featured each. Lockhart was just plain incompetent, and didn't really teach them anything.

"Right." Professor Lupin grinned when everyone was done putting away their stuff. "Follow me, come on –"

Puzzled, the Gryffindors and Slytherins did, giving each other a few covert stomps on the toes as they passed one another, just because they could. As one, the whole group followed the Professor down an empty corridor, around a corner, down a second corridor, around another corner, and straight into Peeves, who was floating around a broom cupboard, trying to stuff a wad of chewing gum in the keyhole. Professor Lupin sighed. "I'd take that gum out of the keyhole, Peeves." He warned. "Mr. Filch won't be able to get to his brooms. You know how he gets then."

Peeves floated upside down and blew a large raspberry at the class, not at all affected by the Professor's words. "Loony loopy Lupin," he sang happily. "Loony loopy Lupin, loony, loopy, Lupin, loony loopy little Lulu –"

Lupin sighed again, taking out his wand, though he shot an amused glance at the class right after. "Pay attention – this might come in handy someday." He twirled his wand, and poked at Peeves, still floating upside down, singing his song. "Waddiwasi." He incanted almost lazily. The gum, halfway stuck in the keyhole, started wiggling free, and suddenly shot out, straight into Peeves' nose. Cursing, the poltergeist shot off, back down the way Professor Lupin's class had just come from.

"Cool, sir!" Dean exclaimed. "Are we going to learn that right now?"

Professor Lupin chuckled. "I'm afraid not, Dean – though I'm sure that it'll come up sooner or later." He smiled at his students, who were suddenly looking up at him with a lot more respect. "Shall we?"

Oo0oO

"Here we are." Professor Lupin opened the door to the staff room, as was advertised on the door, and held it open for his class. "Inside, if you would."

The room they entered was filled with old mismatching chairs, seemingly held up by magic only, and a closet, at the far wall. The room was empty, save for Snape, who was sitting in a low armchair, back facing the far-right corner. He was sneering as he realised that his colleague was about to use the room, and as Lupin made to close the door, he closed the book he was reading and stood gracefully. "Leave it, Lupin. I'd rather not witness this, humorous as your student's failures might become." He stalked over to the open door, through the class, who automatically made a path for him, but turned around at the last second. "If you weren't informed already, Lupin, Neville Longbottom is in this class – I would advise you not to entrust him with anything difficult. Not unless _someone,"_ He shot a blatant look at Hermione, who flushed, "is hissing instructions in his ear."

Neville went scarlet as he was reminded of the numerous times he had exploded, disintegrated, or otherwise irreparably damaged a cauldron, desk, chair, or pair of robes, such as the lesson earlier that day, and Harry glared.

Professor Lupin, on the other hand, quirked an eyebrow. "Actually, I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the first stage of the operation," he said easily, "and I'm sure that he will perform admirably." Neville only blushed harder, not at all assured by the Professor's kind words.

Snape smirked cruelly. "Well, I daresay you're in for a lengthy stay in the infirmary, then. Longbottom is known to be… volatile." He swept away, through the doorway and out of sight as several Slytherins sniggered at the Gryffindor whose face currently matched his tie. Professor Lupin frowned, but shrugged it off and beckoned the class forwards to the end of the room, near the wardrobe.

As he went to stand next to it, however, it suddenly gave a wobble, loudly banging off the wall it stood against. Quite a few people – including Malfoy, Harry noted gleefully – jumped back in surprise and fear.

"Nothing to worry about." Professor Lupin said calmly. "There's a Boggart in there."

Most people seemed to think that this was, in fact, something to worry about; the Purebloods all gave the closet frightful looks, eying the rattling doorknob apprehensively, like something would come out and eat them – they'd had enough of that for the week, thanks. A few Muggleborns and Half-bloods just looked confused, Harry included. Ron, on the other hand, was shaking in fright. Hermione didn't really seem to know what to think.

Completely ignoring the looks, Professor Lupin continued. "Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces. Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks – I once met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in on Sunday evening, I got rid of it Monday morning, and I've been using it in my classes since. So, the first question is – what is a Boggart?"

Hermione immediately put up her hand. "It's a shape-shifter. It can take on the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most."

"Couldn't have put it better myself." Professor Lupin smiled, and Hermione beamed. "So the Boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form, as he does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. If I were to cast a spell on the closet that would let us see through, but not the Boggart, it'll just show a bunch of shapeless black smoke. He will remain like this until he comes out; then, he will immediately become whatever each of us fears most.

"This does mean, however, that we have a huge advantage over the Boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?"

Trying to answer a question with Hermione right there, distracting him by bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet with her hand in the air, was extremely difficult, and Harry had to force his eyes not to stray, but he had a go nevertheless. "It's, er – does it not know what shape to assume, maybe, because we're with so many?"

"Precisely." Professor Lupin smiled, and Hermione put her hand down disappointedly, pouting. "It's always best to face a Boggart with a group, because it becomes confused – what should it be, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I've seen a Boggart make that very mistake; it tried to frighten two people at the same time, and turned into a headless slug – not even remotely frightening. And a flesh-eating headless corpse can't exactly eat anything, either."

"But won't it just turn into Voldemort and be done with it? I highly doubt anyone save the Headmaster and possibly a few more experienced wizards and witches aren't afraid of him." Harry asked, and several people squeaked or even screamed in fright at the name; Neville let out a whimper, too afraid to do anything else. Professor Lupin jumped, then shook his head.

"No. As none of you have ever seen You-Know-Who, and there are next to no pictures of him, it's highly doubtful that you'll recognize him even if he does appear. And should he, I can always jump in front – I've fought Boggarts before, like I said, and they never turn into him with me." Harry nodded, and several people seemed to calm down slightly. Malfoy tried to sneer at the thought of such a haggard-looking, clearly non-Slytherin Professor protecting them, but it came out as more of a grimace than anything else.

"The charm that repels a Boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a Boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.

"We'll practice the charm without wand first. After me, please – riddikulus!"

"This class is bloody 'riddikulus'." Malfoy grouched quietly from behind Harry, who glanced over his shoulder with a frown. "Detestable Care of Magical Creatures teacher, horrid Defence teacher, what is Hogwarts coming to?"

Though he was on the other side of the room, Professor Lupin seemed to have heard, and smiled tightly at the Heir. "Something to share, Mr. Malfoy?" Nobody missed the icy tone he addressed Malfoy with; Seamus and Dean sniggered quietly, then immediately went back to glaring at one another. Malfoy paled, and shook his head quickly.

"Good." Professor Lupin smiled genuinely at the class. "Now, that was only the easy part – I'm afraid that the word alone is not enough. This is where you come in, Neville."

The wardrobe shook again, though it was nothing compared to Neville, who looked as though he was on the plank, about to jump into a pool of sharks. "Right. First things first; what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"

Neville mumbled something, blushing furiously.

"Didn't catch that, Neville." Professor Lupin said cheerfully. "You're going to have to speak up."

"Professor Snape." He announced in barely more than a whisper, and nearly everyone laughed, including the Professor; even Neville grinned apologetically.

"Well, could you – you live with your grandmother, correct? Could you picture Professor Snape in her clothes?"

Neville's lips twitched. "Yeah. Sure. Why, Sir?"

"I want you to imagine them very clearly, Neville, and as soon as the Boggart bursts out of the wardrobe, it will see you, and turn into Professor Snape; then, you will raise your wand – which you will, of course, have clutched in your hand – and cry 'Riddikulus', concentrating hard on the clothes your grandmother wears. Not your grandmother herself, as I highly doubt anyone here wants to see her in Professor Snape's clothes, but her clothes. Think you can do that?"

Neville nodded hesitantly, and Professor Lupin turned to the class. "I want you all to take a moment to think of the thing that scares you most, and of how you would force it to become comical; for when the Boggart is done with Neville, it will turn to someone else, and into their worst fear."

Harry found it hard to imagine his worst fear, really. Briefly, the thought of Voldemort, returned at full strength, flitted across his mind, despite Lupin's explanation; but then he was reminded of the train ride earlier that week, and of the Dementor that entered their compartment, and the chilling, soul-freezing cold that came along with it. _A Dementor in Aunt Petunia's clothes, maybe?_

"Ready Neville?" As Harry was worrying over his presumed Boggart form, Lupin waved his wand at the wardrobe's doorknob. It flew open, and Snape stalked out, glaring and sneering at everything in sight.

Frightfully, Neville raised his wand. "R-r-riddikulus!" It wasn't nearly enough to turn the Boggart into anything, and not-Snape whirled around to face Neville, glaring down at him. Neville gulped, but stood his ground, and said forcefully, "Riddikulus!"

There was a loud pop, and a cloud of smoke came from under not-Snape's clothes, covering him entirely for a split-second; then, it was gone, and a bemused – not to mention angry – not-Snape reached up to verify that, yes, he was suddenly wearing a ridiculously ugly stuffed-vulture hat, a fox-fur scarf, and a long, green, coat reminiscent of a flasher's.

Some people laughed, but most cried out in disgust, suddenly imagining a naked Snape. Not-Snape seemed to realize this and smirked, reaching forward to open his coat –

"Seamus! Quickly!" Lupin called out with a grimace, realizing the exact same thing as most of the class; Seamus sprinted forwards and skidded to a stop in front of Neville, but well away from not-Snape.

Luckily, the Boggart transformed, and in the wake of flasher-not-Snape was a Banshee, ready to wreak havoc upon the class; before she could scream, however, Seamus interfered. "Riddikulus!"

Instead of an ear-splitting screech, the not-Banshee let out a long, loud, continuous fart; the next time she tried, a burp came out instead. Then, she started hiccupping out bubbles, and entertaining the very idea of screaming became impossible.

Dean took the initiative and jumped ahead of Seamus, determined to show his rival-of-the-week up one; the not-Banshee suddenly turned into a severed hand, which turned itself upright – as upright as a severed hand can be, that is – and started crawling towards the class, using its fingers as five spider-like legs –

"Riddikulus!" Suddenly, a mouse trap appeared in front, and the not-hand walked right in the trap; it snapped shut, snapping several bones and even cutting a finger off of the hand. Again, several cried out in disgust; Lupin smiled, however, and called out the next student.

"Parvati! You're up!" The Boggart shape-shifted into a faceless, bloodstained mummy covered in bandages, slowly stalking towards the class. Though they would have plenty of time to run away should it have been an actual people-eating mummy, Parvati was nearly scared witless nevertheless, and only managed a weak-looking spell, cast silently out of desperation – though she would later have no clue how she did it – that managed to unwrap one of the not-mummy's bandages to the point where it tripped over it and crashed to the ground, losing its head in the process. Several chuckled, and Parvati smiled weakly.

"Good one!" Professor Lupin encouraged enthusiastically. "Ronald!"

Shakily, Ron stepped forward, and the mummy disappeared; in its place, a huge Acromantula appeared, clicking its pincers threateningly. Professor Lupin's eyes widened – few students had ever heard of an Acromantula, let alone seen one – but before he could jump in, Ron raised his wand. "Riddikulus!"

The not-Acrumantula's hairy legs disappeared out from under its body, which rolled around uselessly under the sound of the student's sniggers, until it came to a stop – directly in front of Harry.

"Well, that isn't very good." He had time to comment dryly, just before the Boggart started transforming. For half a second, Harry was afraid that he would have to Riddikulus a Dementor into his aunt's clothes, but with inhuman speeds, Professor Lupin was suddenly in front of him, and the Boggart turned into a weird floating balloon-type thing instead, which quickly turned into a bouncy ball, hopping around the floor innocently.

"Finish it, Neville!" Professor Lupin cried, and Neville blasted his Boggart with another Mrs. Longbottom-o-phosis; he let out a loud "Ha!" and not-Snape disappeared, gone in little wisps of black smoke.

"Excellent!" The Professor said jubilantly as the class burst into applause. "Excellent, Neville. Well, done, everyone. Let's see… five points to everyone who tackled the Boggart – ten for Neville, because he did it twice – and five each to Hermione and Harry – no, ten to Harry – for answering my questions and bringing up a good point." Slowly, the applause died down, and Professor Lupin smiled at them.

"Very well done, everyone. The Boggart will probably appear somewhere in the castle again, just like every time – having a thousand people use magic every day inside a single building for a millennium causes the excess magic to build up, see, allowing for anything from moving paintings to teleporting corridors – and it has the unfortunate downside of enabling Boggarts to reform elsewhere; and I'll have to hunt it again before the next lesson." Most of the class gave him a sympathetic look, but Professor Lupin brushed it off, smiling. "It's not that big of a deal, really – merely time-consuming. Next week we'll be doing the exact same thing as today, only for the people that didn't get to go today, which would make for all of the Slytherins, and – Fay and Eloise, I think. Yes. For homework, read the chapter on Boggarts and summarise it for me, to be handed in on Monday. But for now, I need to hunt the Boggart, so you're all dismissed, and I'll see you at dinner."

Talking excitedly, the class left the room, headed for the DADA classroom to pick up their bags. Harry was about to follow the class when Lupin spoke up. "Oh, and Harry, could you stay behind for a little? I have something to discuss with you. Hermione, Ronald, you can go on – just Harry, here."

"Sure, Professor." Harry plopped down in one of the chairs, silently wondering what he'd done wrong, and Lupin sat down next to him. They waited until the last stragglers had left the room and closed the door behind them, before Professor Lupin turned to Harry.

"Do you realize why I didn't let you take on the Boggart?" He questioned, apparently not beating around the bush. Harry tilted his head to the side in thought.

"Is it because it might be Voldemort, or something? Because, you know, the scar and all."

Professor Lupin flinched slightly, then shook his head. "No. As I explained, even if it had been You-Know-Who, none of you would even have recognized him. I believe, and Dumbledore agrees with me, that Black would have popped out – come out of the closet, so to speak." He chuckled darkly. "Can you imagine what a rampant Black could do if he were standing in the middle of a class of third-years with a wand?" Harry paled, and Lupin nodded.

"Exactly. He wouldn't change forms, either, because all of you would be horribly afraid of him – even I would be. And it's rather difficult to transform a mass-murderer currently in an unknown location somewhere in Britain into anything funny." The Professor sighed, shaking his head. "But that's all what could have happened, and it wouldn't do well to dwell on such things.

"In any case, I do believe your friends are waiting outside for you, trying to listen in. Shall we surprise them?" Lupin grinned, and Harry nodded, finding himself grinning alongside the suddenly mischievous Professor.

Oo0oO

Ron grouched, rubbing the side of his face, which was as red as his hair. "I can't believe you opened the door while I was leaning on it. And you just let me fall, too! Didn't even try to catch me."

"I can't believe you tried to listen in." Hermione retorted in place of Harry. They were walking to the library, just after Harry opened the door to the hallway, and made Ron drop inside the teacher's lounge, falling flat on his face. "Honestly, I should have stopped you before you even got the idea."

"Do you think Snape's going to be worse than usual?" Harry asked suddenly, already dreading their second lesson, that Friday. "Word's undoubtedly gone around, about Neville's boggart, and the way he… improved it."

Ron shrugged. "Probably, knowing the git."

"Language!" Hermione scolded with a frown. Ron waved it off.

"Yeah, yeah. But seriously, how could he be worse than usual? I'd say that usual is about as bad as it gets."

Oo0oO

Snape stood shaking in silent fury as he glared at Neville, who, together with the rest of the class was covered in sticky green goo that, while harmless, would be an absolute horror to clean up. Unfortunately, his own exploded cauldron had set off a chain reaction that covered the entire class in it. "What part," he ground out, "of 'a pinch of salt' do you not understand?" His nostrils flared, and Neville squeaked in fear. "Explain. Now. Because I'm afraid that sheer dim-wittedness and lack of brain cells is not a good enough excuse."

Hermione was about to try and salvage the situation – probably making it worse than it already was – but Harry quickly put his hand over her mouth to stop her from turning Snape's ire against them.

"Explain, you lubberly, mammering, pigeon-livered bed-presser!" Snape roared after Neville stayed silent, cowering under his gaze, slamming a hand down on a clean spot of Neville's desk. Neville screamed in surprise and toppled over backwards, crashing into the floor behind him loudly. Several people jumped in surprise; Snape scowled around him, glaring at the goo.

"Detention. All of you. Every single one of you needs to be here tonight, at seven o'clock. While the rest of the school gets to eat dinner, you will be scrubbing your hands bloody on this… feculence. For the rest of the month, detention three hours a night with Filch for Longbottom. Now, leave. I need time to think."

Malfoy foolishly put up his hand. "But Professor, I didn't –"

"Leave, you miscreants!"

"I _knew_ I should have knocked on wood." Ron grumbled quietly.

* * *

**_Note: I love Snape. Perhaps as much as I do Dumbledore. But only if he's written right – I've read tons of Severitus where he was absolutely horrendous, and OOC to the extreme without any clear reason, and it's like - why? Why are you bothering to write a story where a character that well-crafted is just basically someone else?_**

**_I don't know. It's one of my pet peeves, I suppose._**

**_All credit to the insults belongs to Shakespeare, by the way._**

**_-The Baron_**


	7. Part 2 - Episode 3

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**Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce**

**Episode III**

"This is our last chance – my last chance – to win the Quidditch cup."

Captain Wood (for in moments such as these there was no place for Oliver, only for Captain Wood) strode up and down in front of his team, which was seated on a few benches in the Quidditch stadium. "I'll be leaving at the end of this year. I'll never get another shot at it. Gryffindor haven't won for seven years now.

"Okay, so we've had the worst luck in the world – injuries – and then the people who felt like skipping class and got petrified last year…" Captain Wood swallowed, the memory being almost too painful to bear, even though it had been quite some time since then. "But we also know we've got the best – ruddy – team – in – the – school." A familiar manic glint reappeared in his eyes, which had been lost near the end of the year before, and he punched his open palm, not once stopping in his stride.

"The point is, the Quidditch cup should have had our name on it these last two years. Ever since Harry joined the team, I've thought the thing was in the bag. But we haven't got it. And this year's the last chance we'll get to finally see our name on the thing…" He spoke so dejectedly, that even Fred and George looked sympathetic.

"We'll do it this year, Oliver!" Angelina cried encouragingly.

"Definitely!" Fred joined in. "Who else is going to be our winning keeper –"

"– Ron?" George finished, laughing.

Harry, in complete contrast to his colleagues, spoke up thoughtfully. "Just throwing this out there – how about I become a Chaser?" Oblivious to Harry, who was staring up at the sky, everyone was looking incredibly grief-stricken, believing they had lost their Seeker. "I'll still be the Seeker, of course," Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, "but I'll just hop in unexpectedly, catch a ball, and chuck it in their goal. Some secret weapon-type thing."

The thought had struck him over the summer, while eating dinner; Dudley and Vernon always put on the football game, and it had struck him that, well, there wasn't really anyone just sitting around the entire time, running around uselessly. Perhaps, in another life, he wouldn't have bothered, but – well, Hermione always did say that he should put more effort into things, and while the Diagon library had been an obvious bust, this might actually be more up his alley, especially since it _didn't require searching through magical London for days on end just to get bloody started –_

Most of the team was about to protest that such a thing was impossible, not to mention that it probably wasn't permitted by the rules, but Oliver grinned, speaking up to conveniently stop Harry's mental rant in its tracks. "Let's do it." He said, clapping decisively. "Let's do it. It's completely legal, so why not?"

And thus, a training regimen straight from the depths of hell kicked up, and soon, they were flying around the field two to three hours every other evening. Quite surprisingly, nobody died.

Oo0oO

One evening after practice, Harry returned cold, stiff, and soaking wet with his broom clutched in his hand to a happily buzzing common room. "What's happened?" He asked Hermione, crouching down in front of the hearth they were seated at to warm up a bit.

Hermione was poring over some star charts, and hadn't even noticed Harry. Instead, Ron spoke up, pointing at the notice board, hanging on the wall next to the door. "First Hogsmeade weekend. End of October. Halloween."

"Excellent." Fred said as he sat down next to Harry, having come in just after him. "I'm nearly out of Stink Pellets – paintballs too, come to think of it."

Harry sighed, jumping up from his crouching position and plopping in the free chair next to Hermione. "I didn't manage to get my slip signed." He admitted, scowling. "Vernon was being a git, and didn't do it, so I'm not going to be able to actually go."

Dean, walking by, paused as he heard Harry's annoyed speech, and turned to him. "Well, if you have something else of his handwriting to go off of, I'm sure I could forge the signature." He offered, and everyone within earshot blinked in surprise. "I've had a bit of practice over the summer with my older brother's newfound obsession with adult magazines, and I've had to forge my father's signature several times – if you want me to, I could probably manage your uncle just fine."

"You would do that?" Harry asked, quite surprised, before grinning happily. "Thanks, Dean! That means a lot."

"Honestly, is that really such a good idea?" Hermione huffed, looking vaguely disapproving. "It might sound like a good idea, but what if Professor McGonagall catches you, or figures out it's forged? You'll have detention for the rest of the year."

"That's true." Harry sighed, before sharing a daring grin with Dean. "You up for the risk?"

"Sure." Dean grinned, setting down his bag next to their couch. Hermione huffed in the background, though thankfully, she didn't actually sound angry, merely exasperated. "Hold on, I'll go get my good quill."

"There should still be a small note from Uncle Vernon from last year's Christmas lying under my bed." Harry noted. "The Elves never think to check under the bed; it was still there when I checked, our first night back."

"Right." Dean nodded. "I'll be back in a second."

Fred grinned, ruffling Harry's hair fondly. "Ah, ickle Harrikins is all grown-up now, already masterminding the forging of his own letters." His grin widened as he turned to George, who was grinning right alongside him. "We didn't start on that until we were six or seven, did we?"

"Six, yes." George nodded, grinning at the annoyed Harry, who was trying to calm his hair down, though he wasn't having much luck. "Why couldn't Ronnikins have been more like you?" He bemoaned, shooting a teasing glare at his younger brother, who scowled.

Despite his screwed-up hair, and despite his indignancy at the nickname, Harry couldn't quite hold back a fond grin. They were complete idiots, but Fred and George were still some of the greatest people he'd ever met.

"I don't know if I'll even be allowed to go, forged note or not." Harry suddenly realised, scowling. "Bloody Black. Maybe I should just ask Snape instead of McGonagall, he'd be glad to be rid of me, wouldn't he?"

"Well, they're bound to catch Black soon, he's been sighted already." Hermione placated, glancing up from her charts. "The entire Auror force is searching for him. He can't remain hidden that long."

"That's exactly the problem, though." Harry's scowl deepened. "He's been sighted in London, in August. You know how paranoid the Professors are, I don't doubt that they think Black rode the train with us here, despite the Dementors."

"Why is Black after you, anyways?" Ron asked bluntly, just as Dean came trudging back down the stairs, giant quill and crumpled note in hand. "I mean, Death Eaters didn't kidnap little kids with minivans and candy, did they?"

Briefly, Harry contemplated actually coming clean and telling them everything, about the Fidelius, about Black's betrayal, about how the war really ended – but then, he was reminded of Ron's face when he found out about his Parseltongue ability, and of Hermione's scared-witless face as she lay petrified in the hospital wing, and realised that he couldn't afford to, because – because what if they pulled away from him for it, if they looked at him with eyes like that when they thought him too dangerous to be around? He couldn't risk that, even if he didn't think they would. Besides, Fred and George were right there, and as much as he liked them, he couldn't in good conscience even think about telling them when he hadn't even told Ron and Hermione.

Harry swallowed. "I – I don't know." He said instead, standing up. "I – showers. I'm still, you know, dirty. And smelly." With an uncomfortable cough, he smiled a little at his friends, though it probably came out as more of a grimace, and moved off up the stairs to the boy's dorm, brushing past Dean in his haste.

Hermione stared after him with a sad look. "He shouldn't have to lie to us like that."

Ron blinked cluelessly. "He lied?"

"Never mind, Ron." Hermione huffed, turning back to her star chart. Her mind was still whirling, however, on why Harry was hiding this from them – how bad was it, then, that he thought they'd actively resent him over it?

Oo0oO

"One moment, please!" Professor McGonagall called at the end of their next Transfiguration lesson, quickly drawing her class' attention. "For those of you that are in my House, you should hand your Hogsmeade permission forms to me before Halloween. No form, no visiting the village, so don't forget! The Slytherins should, of course, hand theirs in with Professor Snape."

Neville put up his hand. "Please, Professor, I – I think I've lost –"

"Your grandmother sent yours to me directly, Longbottom." Professor McGonagall's lips twitched ever so slightly. "She seemed to think it was safer. That's all, and unless you happen to have your form on you right now and need to hand it in to me, you may leave."

"You turn it in now." Ron whispered to Harry. "She might allow you to go."

"She probably won't. Dean's forgery is good, but not _that_ good." Hermione sighed quietly, closing her Transfiguration textbook with a thud. "And even if she does – what if Black comes along when we're in Hogsmeade –?"

Harry raised an eyebrow in contemplation, then shrugged. "I could try. No harm in asking, right? And Hermione, the chances of that happening are as large as someone mistaking Malfoy for a Gryffindor."

"Yeah, but still…" Hermione still wasn't entirely convinced, but Harry walked over to Professor McGonagall regardless.

"Professor?" Professor McGonagall regarded him silently, waiting for him to continue. "Erm – my permission slip, here." He fumbled around in his pockets for a second, before fishing out the crumpled form of the permission slip, signed neatly in Vernon's handwriting.

She accepted it with a quirked eyebrow, and scanned it briefly, pausing at Vernon's signature. "Mr. Potter, this is not a properly signed slip."

"Eh?" Harry blinked, taking the slip back to stare at the perfectly accurate signature. "But – but Uncle Vernon signed this! What's wrong with it, then?"

"It says _Parent Name_, Mr. Potter, not _Parent Signature_." Professor McGonagall shot him a look, an odd expression etched on her face – was it pity? "I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but those are the rules, and I am unable to bend them. You'd better hurry, or you'll be late for your next lesson."

Oo0oO

Ron called Professor McGonagall a great many number of names that greatly annoyed Hermione, who, though she wasn't nearly as angry as Ron, was still disappointed that her best friend wouldn't get to go with them. Harry felt quite the same as Hermione, because he'd already expected that he wouldn't get to go – and obviously the reason wasn't a legitimate one, because Hermione's parents had left their signatures, too – but even if he went to Dumbledore with it, the Headmaster would probably just stare at him with that disappointed face until he just caved in and went along with McGonagall's plans anyways.

Plus, it would be Halloween that day, so honestly, he'd already been expecting it.

A lot better, it would seem much later, when he was abducted by a certain pair of red-headed twins into an abandoned classroom on the day before Halloween.

Oo0oO

"We are offering you shared ownership of this," Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on the desk in between the twins and Harry. It wasn't nearly as fancy as Fred seemed to think it was; a square, old, worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it.

Harry stared at it, and then at the twins. He coughed. "Please explain to me why, exactly, I would like to own an old – empty – piece of parchment, and partially at that, because I'm not sure I understand."

George shook his head disappointedly, and Fred closed his eyes with a grimace, as though Harry had mortally offended him. "Harry, Harry, I thought you had a clue about magic by now." George frowned. "This is the secret to our success –"

"Our hidden ace –"

"Jack-in-the-box –"

"Secret weapon –"

"Whatever you want to call it."

"To be honest, it's a wrench, giving it to you – even partially –" Fred continued, "But your need is greater than ours, and we've got it nearly memorized anyway."

"In any case," George whipped out his wand, and tapped the parchment. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

At once, thin ink lines began to spread like a web from George's wand, covering the entire parchment. They joined, criss-crossed, and fanned around into every corner of the parchment; then huge, green, curly words curled across the top, proclaiming proudly;

_Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_

_Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers_

_Are proud to present:_

_THE MARAUDER'S MAP_

With a start, Harry realized that it was a map, showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. The truly remarkable thing, however, was the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labelled with a name in minuscule writing. Headmaster Dumbledore was making his way across the grounds, towards the Forbidden Forest, accompanied by Hagrid and Fang; Snape was stalking the fifth floor's corridors, undoubtedly looking for Gryffindor prey; and Hermione and Ron were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, Harry knew, which was one massive blur of dots and names. There were three other massive clots, in the Ravenclaw tower, the dungeons, and near the room that was labelled the Kitchens, which could have been nothing but the Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff common rooms.

Aside from that, there were quite a few passages between corridors and floors that Harry hadn't known existed; a few even branched off from the castle, towards the north-west, where there was nothing but forest, mountain and –

"These lead to Hogsmeade." Fred said, tracing one of them with his finger. "There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four, but we're sure we're the only ones who knows about these. Don't bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it's caved in – completely blocked. And we don't reckon anyone's ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow's planted right over the entrance. But this one here," He tapped on a line, "this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We've used it loads of times. And as you might've noticed, the entrance is right outside this room, through that one-eyed crone's hump."

"This is amazing." Harry whispered in awe, watching the tiny dot named Malfoy enter Snape's empty office. He looked back up to the twins. "But why? Why even show me this?"

"Well, Harry," George began, reaching over to slap Harry's shoulder, "we've seen the way you make googly-eyes at your lady friend –"

"And don't try to deny it, because we've seen each other do it a lot to Angelina –"

"– and Katie –"

"– and Katie, yes –"

"– but we also know that you haven't had the courage to ask her out on a date yet."

"If you go to Hogsmeade tomorrow and check out all the good spots and such –"

"– Honeydukes, The Three Broomsticks, the Shrieking Shack, Madam Puddifoot's, and so on –"

"– you'll be able to ask her out for the next Hogsmeade visit, usually around Christmas –"

"– and impress Miss Granger with your apparent omnipotence –"

"– because as far as she knows, you've never been there before, outside of the Hogwarts Express' arrival."

Harry grinned thankfully. "Thanks, guys. It means a lot that you're willing to share this with me."

Fred waved it off. "Don't mention it, Harry. The only condition to all of this is that you can keep the map, but we'll need to be able to borrow it when we need it, like tomorrow, because we'll be doing something, and we'll need to check if there is anyone coming while we do it."

"Alright." Harry nodded, still unable to keep the grin from his face. "How do I open the statue? Because I highly doubt I can just walk up to it and open it like a door."

"Just tap it with your wand and say _Dissendium_." George said, smirking. "A passage will open up, and close automatically once you get inside."

"One more thing –" Fred continued – "don't forget to wipe the map once you've used it."

"Mischief Managed." George tapped the map, and the ink disappeared, sinking into the parchment as if it were water. They stood up in unison, and shook Harry's hand.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Harry."

Oo0oO

The passage was long, low, dark, and had many, many loose rocks and stones to slip and fall on, and possibly rip or tear the Invisibility Cloak on, which Harry was carrying close to his chest. Even with a Lumos, there were really too many twists and turns to see more than three feet in front of him.

It took ages to reach the end, but Harry had the thought of Honeydukes, Hogsmeade, and a possible successful date with Hermione to sustain him. After around an hour, the tunnel finally began to rise, until it abruptly turned into old stone steps that led up, into the dark. A couple of hundred steps later, Harry was just beginning to feel like his legs about to give out when – BONK!

A large wooden trapdoor, undoubtedly part of the floor of Honeydukes' cellar, prevented further movement upwards. Carefully, Harry checked if there were any sounds up there, making sure to remain completely still himself. When, after quite a few seconds, it remained completely silent, Harry tentatively opened the hatch a little, and peeked out over the edge.

The cellar was filled with crates and boxes, filled to the brim with typical wizard's Halloween candy; animated spiders were crawling impatiently in their boxes, a large stack of carved pumpkins was looking around the room – a few grinned widely and winked at Harry when they spotted him – and a huge, see-through tube of fake, undoubtedly tasty maggots stood in the far corner, lit up by a light in the bottom of the tube, squirming around disgustingly.

Harry scrunched his nose as he clambered out of the trapdoor, putting on his cloak along the way, and snuck over to the wooden staircase, leading upstairs, to what could have been nothing but the shop, as Harry could definitely hear voices and the tinkling of a bell when he neared the door at the top.

When he opened it and quietly snuck around the counter, careful to avoid any shopkeepers that might have screwed him over, and reappeared in the midst of the hundreds of students that had somehow managed to squish themselves into the tiny shop without anyone being the wiser.

With a determined look, he then set out upon his quest to find Ron and Hermione – but first he needed to get out of Honeydukes, which, considering the current dense population, would be a quest in and of itself.

Oo0oO

Finding Hermione and Ron proved to be much, much more difficult than anticipated. A horrendously named _Ye Olde Bookshoppe _was completely empty of humans, patrons and staff alike; Scrivenshaft's, a shop specializing in ink and quills, was similarly devoid of any familiar red or bushy brown hair, as was Zonko's, the Hog's Head, and the rest of Hogsmeade; in fact, the only red hair Harry encountered belonged to Fred, who was sitting at a table in the Three Broomsticks, waiting on his twin, who had gone to grab them drinks together with Lee Jordan.

Fred motioned him over as soon as he saw him. "You're looking constipated, Harry, and let me tell you, it doesn't look pretty. Come over here, and tell Uncle Fred what's wrong." Harry shot him a half-hearted glare, but when Fred just shot him a brilliant grin, plopped into the seat opposite regardless. "Now, what's got your knickers in a twist?"

Harry sighed, choosing to ignore Fred's choice of words. "I've been looking around all day, but I can't find Ron and Hermione anywhere."

"Does it really matter?" Fred questioned pointedly. "I mean, they don't control your life, do they?"

"I suppose." Harry shrugged. "But I don't see you running off anywhere without George. I mean, I've heard rumours that you two go to the toilet together during class."

"Well, maybe, but we're twins, so that's different. And we don't really go to the toilet together – one of us goes, and the other sets up a prank somewhere else." The redhead grinned again, before shrugging as well. "It's whatever, though. If you don't think you can handle a day alone, you could hang out with me, George, and Lee for the afternoon; you know, try to chat up some girls, fail, try to run away from their painful fists and pointy heels, hopefully succeed."

Harry grimaced. "I'll pass, thanks. Anything else I could do around here?"

"You could go to the Shrieking Shack." Fred suggested. "Maybe Ronnikins and Hermione are even over there, checking out the creepy myths surrounding it. They say that people get Wizard-napped on Halloween around there." Harry snorted.

"Right. Of course they do. Sure, I'll check it out – who knows, they might be over there. I don't think so, though, if it's as creepy as you suggested. You of all people should know that Ron's a pansy at best – well, unless there's a life on the line, but anyone changes in that kind of situation."

"Ain't that the truth." Fred mock-saluted Harry as the bespectacled Wizard stood up to leave. "See you at Hogwarts, Harry – and don't forget to dust off your coat and robes when you enter Hogwarts. Nothing is more telling that you've been somewhere than smudges of dirt covering your robes from back to front."

"Will do." Harry waved jauntily as he turned to leave. "See you later, Fred."

A few seconds later, George and Lee came back, each carrying a tray of shots. "One beer pong, coming right up." George put his tray down, and frowned at his chair. "I could swear that chair was shoved under the table when I left."

"That's right." Fred grinned. "A girl came over here when you guys left – long black hair, smart glasses, 'round thirteen years old, curious scar on her forehead, wearing a hat – and asked if she could have a kiss from 'Senpai'. I refused, of course. You know I don't do girls that young. Fourteen is fair ground, but thirteen? No way."

Lee rolled his eyes and pulled out his own chair, calling the bluff as it was but going along with him regardless. "Whatever. Let's just get started – I'll be the ref. Fred, you're green, George, you're blue. Blue begins, because Green just nearly got laid."

"Hey, that's bias!" Fred claimed indignantly.

"You can seek out a lawyer when we're done here, Green." Lee grinned. "Now, Blue – three, two, one, go!"

Oo0oO

The clearing of the Shrieking Shack was a rather ominous place, surrounded on all sides by the Forbidden Forest, and connected only through a small, well-lit path from Hogsmeade. Though it was still bright daylight in Hogsmeade, it was dark and gloomy in the Shrieking Shack's clearing. The fresh green grass, looking as if it were just mowed around the village, had turned high and wild, reaching up to Harry's knees, and the trees, previously beautiful shades of red, orange, yellow, and purple, turned dark green, even black. The only light flooding into the clearing was from the skies above, which didn't provide much, as rarely anything filtered through the thick canopy covering most of the clearing.

The Shack itself was a true wizarding-home, like the Burrow: if a Muggle built it, it'd collapse because, you know, gravity. It was made up out of old, rotten wood, painted grey in a past life, possibly when there were still people living there. The support beams were all a faded blue, with strange, silver markings covering the doorpost, reminiscent of the cycles of a moon. Rusty black steel frames held the windows in place, most of which had cracks, almost as if something had slammed into them repeatedly. Moss covered the cobble pathway leading up to the front door, nearly hiding it entirely in the grass to the sides of it, if it weren't for the fact that the grass was yellowy, and likely hadn't been properly watered since the last millennium.

When Harry arrived, there wasn't anyone around. From around the clearing, a few crows cried, no doubt startled by Harry's sudden de-invisibilitation; he paid them no mind, however, and instead walked over to the fence separating him – and other potential visitors – from the Shack.

The area was surprisingly calming, despite its creepiness. The sunlight, little as it was, made a wonderful setting, illuminating the Shack almost like a sunset. Black leaves fluttered to the ground, affected by the coming winter just as much as their non-magical relatives. Quite a few birds had made the clearing their home, and lively conversations seemed to happen all over the place. A shaggy black dog, reminiscent of the stray Harry had seen stalking around Privet Drive that summer, had apparently made the Shack its home, and was sniffing the air curiously.

Suddenly, the dog turned to face Harry, and leaped forwards, sprinting over with a mad glint in its red – _red? _– eyes. "Hey, calm down!" Harry yelped, jumping back from the fence; however, the dog jumped up on top of the fence, and used it to jump even higher, now suddenly on course with Harry's head.

"Stop that!" Harry ducked, and the dog flew straight over top of him, screeching to a halt a few feet away. Harry watched it cautiously, to see if there was going to be another attack, but to his surprise, the dog stood up on its hind legs; suddenly, the fur started disappearing, and it grew larger, and larger, and larger, and more and more pale, until a man stood in its place, mad glint still present.

"Hah." The man grinned. "Finally got you, Harry!" His voice was rough, and clearly hadn't been used a lot lately.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, taking out his wand warily. "And how do you know who I am?"

The man tilted his head, looking quite like a dog. "Really? You don't recognize me? I thought pictures of my handsome mug were posted all over the place lately. I'm your Godfather, Harry. Sirius Black."

Oo0oO

_Meanwhile…_

Ron tilted his head contemplatively, staring at the massive wall of sweets before him. "What d'you think Harry'd like? Cockroach Clusters? Morbidly Mouth-Mellowing Maggots?"

"Honestly, Ron, I highly doubt he's going to enjoy anything remotely insect-like." Hermione rolled her eyes, snagging the bag of Maggots from the redhead's hands and throwing it back in its basket on the wall. "How about these?" She held up a few wrapped swirling balls of rainbow, and Ron grimaced.

"Yes, and add in pink hearts, unicorns, and a dress while you're at it. Malfoy will be all over him."

"Ew." Hermione scrunched up her nose, but put them in her basket anyway. "I'll take some, though. Maybe to distract Parvati and Lavender when they're going on about fashion again. But what about these? Seems nice."

"Not those." Ron shook his head at the little cups. "They taste like coffee."

Hearing that, Hermione sighed, putting them back. "Anything that tastes like tea, maybe? Or elderberries? Harry drinks two cups of the stuff every morning."

"Well, there's some green tea-flavoured bats over there." Ron said doubtfully, motioning to a large cage, where hundreds of green gummy bats were flapping around. "You'll have to chop their heads off first, though, and even then they keep squirming. Ginny got some last year, but set them free after the animation spell didn't wear off after a week. Never heard of elderberry-flavoured candy, though."

Hermione pouted. "Why is this so difficult? Stupid Wizarding candy…"

Oo0oO

"Sirius Black?" Harry frowned, raising his wand. "You… don't look like the pictures say you do."

He chuckled grimly. "That's what Azkaban does to you. Twelve-and-a-half years, I believe." Black suddenly stopped, and frowned. "Why haven't you attacked yet, by the way? I thought students were allowed to use magic in Hogsmeade as well."

"Well, assuming you don't have a wand, which you probably do – killed another innocent, took theirs –" unnoticed by Harry, Black flinched – "you'll still be able to dodge around whatever I can send at you, which, right now, is Flippendo, the rope version of Incarcerus, and, if I'm lucky, Stupify and Expelliarmus, provided that I don't fuck up the wand movement and they backfire."

Black grinned. "Smart kid."

"What I can do, though, is this." Harry twirled his wand anticlockwise and jabbed it upwards. Black cursed loudly, jumping forward to try and slap Harry's wand out of his hand, but he was too far away, and got a face full of dirt instead.

A massive bright purple spark shot out, exploding into millions of sparks when it breached the canopy. It was a distress signal, taught to every single first year during their first week in Hogwarts. The colour was used as a measure of gravity; green meant a light situation, orange was mildly serious, red was danger, and purple meant possible (inter)national incident. A professor or habitant of Hogsmeade would undoubtedly see, and come check out what was going on.

"Shit!" Black cursed, and glared at Harry. "I'll be back, Harry. I promise." Then, he was gone with a loud _crack_, and Harry barely had the time to throw his cloak over his head – he wasn't supposed to be anywhere even close to Hogsmeade, after all – before a group of Wizards and Witches came running, wands out, into the clearing. They stopped a few feet away from Harry, looking about warily, before relaxing slightly when nobody appeared; Harry, meanwhile, froze, not even breathing as one of the Witches walked up to within a foot of him, before thankfully turning back around to re-join her group.

"Must've disapparated." One of them – an old Dumbledore look-a-like – muttered, putting his wand back in his robes.

"D'you think it was Black?" A Witch, standing next to the Dumbledore look-a-like, asked frightfully, pointing her trembling wand.

"Nah." A Wizard standing on the other side of the group said, shaking his head. "The Dementors would've caught him."

"Hmm." The Dumbledore look-a-like suddenly whipped out his wand again, and waved it around in a circle. "Homenium Revelio."

The group of Wizards and Witches suddenly started glowing, all throughout the clearing, birds and animals lit up in bright light, before they fled into the forest. Harry held in his breath as the Dumbledore look-a-like looked over at him, standing in the middle of the clearing – there really wasn't any way he could not be seen, but he had to try – before his eyes smoothly passed over, apparently noticing Harry.

"Never mind. Just a hunch." And they left.

Oo0oO

"Here you go, Harry!" Hermione said cheerfully, dropping a small bag in his lap. They were back in the Common Room, where Harry had retreated after his meeting with Black, while Ron was already eating dinner in the Great Hall. Harry looked down curiously. "It's enlarged, so it's a lot larger than it seems. We didn't know what to get you, so we just threw in what we like ourselves. Oh, and there's also some treacle tart-flavoured tiny books somewhere in there, probably near the top, and a small box of elderberry cookies somewhere near the bottom. It was the only elderberry-flavoured thing they had."

Harry opened the basket, and immediately started digging, quietly chanting "Treacle tart, treacle tart, treacle tart, treacle tart – treacle tart!" He pulled out a massive bag, at least four times the size of the tiny bag it was hidden inside, full of small book-shaped treats, no larger than a square inch, made of what couldn't have been anything but treacle tart. Harry grinned widely, and hugged Hermione, not once letting go of the bag. "Thank you so much!"

Hermione blushed slightly, and shrugged when Harry let go. "Well, I knew you like treacle tart, so –" She stopped when she spotted Harry, who wasn't paying any attention to her, slowly nibbling the end of one of the little books with his eyes closed instead, lost in his own world. She giggled at his face.

"Harry? Come, let's go eat dinner. Ron's already waiting for us, and there'll probably be an entire tart during dessert." Suddenly, Harry jumped up, grabbed Hermione's hand, and sprinted to the Fat Lady's portrait. "Harry!" She squealed, blushing brightly.

"We need to hurry! If Ron eats the Treacle tart…" Harry shook his head. "No, we mustn't think of such a heinous crime! Hurry, Hermione!" His friend giggled and ran as fast as she could, trying in vain to keep up with him.

Neither noticed that they never once let go of each other's hand until they entered the Great Hall.

Oo0oO

After the feast was done, after Harry ate his treacle tart, and after the Ghosts re-enacted Sir Nicholas' botched beheading – a reluctant Bloody Baron serving as the executioner – everyone was happily chatting as they headed up to their common room, or down, as was the case with the Slytherins. However, once Harry and the other third-year Gryffindors reached the corridor with the Fat Lady, they found it completely blocked, jam-packed full of muttering students.

"Why is everyone just standing there?" Ron asked curiously, trying to peer over the massive seventh-years in front of them.

Harry frowned, and took a small stick out of the inner pocket of his robes, which he tapped with his wand. It grew larger and larger, until he was holding a familiar Nimbus 2000. His friends gaped at him. "Why on earth do you have that on you?" Hermione asked incredulously, and Harry shrugged.

"Oliver has the urge to call sudden team matches in the Quidditch pitch. We've learned to always carry our brooms around, so that we don't have to walk up here every time." He sat down, and quietly rose into the air. The twins apparently had had the same idea, and were already floating above the portrait.

Harry zoomed forward, pulling up next to them. "Hey. What's going on?" He asked quietly. From the back of the corridor, Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were already making their way through the students.

Fred motioned towards the portrait, not even turning to face Harry. "See for yourself." Harry glanced over, and nearly fell off his broom in shock. As it was, he barely managed to hold on, pale-faced.

The portrait was completely annihilated. It was lying on the floor in tears and scraps, as if it'd been slashed and ripped with a Muggle knife; huge chunks were gone completely. The Fat Lady was nowhere to be seen.

That, as scary as the thought that someone wanted to forcefully enter the Gryffindor Tower was, wasn't the worst part, however; a message was scratched into the wall, with the same knife that must have slashed the portrait.

_I will get you again, Harry._

_I promise._

Dumbledore, who had just arrived, turned towards Harry with a frown marring his face, eyes hard and serious. "Anything you wish to tell us, Harry?"

Harry gulped.

* * *

**_Yeah! Finally some action! Really Sirius action, in fact! What do you think? Too Grim? _**

…

…

…

…**_I apologise for that. Couldn't stop myself. But at least some of you laughed, right?_**

**_…_****_Right?_**

**_…_**

**_…_**

**_…_****_I'll show myself out._**

**_-The Baron_**


	8. Part 2 - Episode 4

.

**Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce**

**Episode IV**

"'Sup." Harry plopped down on his sleeping bag next to his friends, who were sitting on two others on either side of his, quietly talking. The hall was filled to the brim with hundreds upon hundreds of students, each with their own sleeping bags, which Dumbledore had mass-conjured a minute earlier.

When Harry sat down, Hermione immediately cut Ron off, breaking straight through his sentence. "Harry! Are you alright? Why did Professor Dumbledore want to talk with you?"

Sighing, Harry shrugged (Ron muttered "I was talking." but went completely ignored). "I honestly don't know whether I'm okay, Hermione. I don't." And in large lines and hushed tones, he briefly outlined his version of the Hogsmeade visit, taking his time to leave any mention of Fred and George out of it – it would be bad business to blab about your partner in crime, after all, even to friends. Then, he explained what happened after the incident in the corridor; how Dumbledore had dragged him off to his office for an interrogation, accompanied by Snape and Professor Lupin, and the massive fight that had ensued between the latter two, after Snape brought up the _delightful _idea to give Harry Veritaserum, to make sure that he was telling the truth.

As soon as he was done, Hermione reached over to slap him upside the head. "You idiot! Why didn't you just say that you were going to Hogsmeade as well? We could've met up at the Three Broomsticks, or something!"

Harry rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I didn't think of that." He admitted. "But at the same time, even if I'd thought of that, I wouldn't have said anything, because then it wouldn't have been a surprise anymore."

They were silent for a second as they watched Percy the Perfect Prefect speak with Professor McGonagall, more than likely fearing the security of his gleaming Head Boy badge, currently pinned to the front of his robes. "Well, promise me that you'll tell me the next time you try something like this?" Hermione asked eventually, looking at Harry with eyes that he couldn't quite decipher – concern, maybe? "If this happens again – if Black catches you, and – and does things to you – I –" She took a breath, sounding quite shaky all of a sudden. "I honestly don't know what I'd do."

For a few seconds, they remained motionless, quietly staring at one another – _her eyes were a striking hazel, suddenly standing out to him in the dim torch-lit evening, and for the first time, he couldn't deny that, yes, his best friend really was beautiful_ – as if they were in a staring contest neither planned on losing. Then, Harry opened his mouth, not entirely sure on what to say; and he'd more than likely have fumbled out something moronic that would've pissed Hermione off if it weren't for Neville, who was coming over, suddenly tripping on the edge of Harry's sleeping bag and falling on the both of them. For once, Harry found himself thanking his friend's clumsiness.

"Oh!" Neville blushed a dark shade of crimson, and quickly tried to scrabble back upright. "I-I'm sorry, H-Harry, Hermione! I-I didn't mean to do that, I swear!"

Neville's victims glanced at each other, and laughed a little, silently relieved that the serious atmosphere had been broken. "It's fine, Neville." Hermione smiled. "We know you didn't do it on purpose."

"Why are you over here, anyway? I thought your sleeping bag was somewhere over that way." Harry motioned to where Neville just came from, and Neville shrugged.

"Yeah. But you weren't there earlier, when Professor McGonagall brought us here, so I was just wondering where you'd been."

"Ah." Harry smiled. "Well, I ran into some trouble –"

Percy, standing where the Head Table usually was, suddenly interrupted their conversation, shouting loudly, "Lights out in ten minutes! No more conversations after that! Hurry into your sleeping bags, go on!"

Harry frowned at the interruption, shooting the Weasley an annoyed glance. "As I was saying, I ran into some trouble earlier today, and the Headmaster helped me with it. Nothing to worry about." He smiled again. "Really. You can just go to sleep – you heard what Percy said, right?"

"How could I not?" Neville wondered quietly. They chuckled, and Neville stood up again. "Well, if you're sure you're fine, then I'll just go back to Dean and Seamus. Goodnight, Harry, Hermione."

"Goodnight." Harry and Hermione called as Neville walked away, crawling into their sleeping bags. They were a truly hideous shade of purple – identical to Dumbledore's robes, actually – which Harry quickly converted to a simple dark red with a colour-changing charm, much like the rest of Hogwarts had done for their own.

They were silent for a bit, staring up at the ceiling. "Harry?" Hermione asked quietly, then. "Do you – do you think Black's still in the castle?"

"Well, Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be." Harry answered after mulling it over for a little while, frowning. "But I doubt it – if there's one thing that I've learnt from reading detective books, it's that you don't stick around the crime scene. I'd reckon that he's holed himself up somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. I mean, if he's sneaky enough to get into the castle unnoticed, he's undoubtedly sneaky enough to get back out and hide from Centaurs, Acromantulas, and whatever else might crawl around in there."

Hermione hummed thoughtfully. "How did he get in in the first place? The Dementors should've caught him."

Harry remained quiet for a few seconds. "There are quite a few secret passageways in Hogwarts – though there are a few that can't really be called secret anymore, but that's irrelevant. The point is, there are also a few that lead out all the way to Hogsmeade. It's entirely possible that Black found one, and is using it to get into Hogwarts safely." Hermione gasped. "Filch already knows about four of them, one is caved in, another one leads straight to Dementors, and the seventh – the one that I used today – is practically impossible to use unnoticed unless you have an invisibility cloak, or another such object, which I highly doubt he, as an escaped convict, has access to."

"But he could have found an eighth." Hermione concluded, and Harry nodded.

"That's what's bothering me too. The problem is, they're practically impossible to find unless you have some kind of spell that can find hollow spaces behind objects, walls, floors, or ceilings, or something like that – does that even exist? – and even once you find one, you'll still need the password, passphrase, or pass-action to actually use it, which means indefinite possibilities. I can only think of one place where an unknown secret passage might be, but you need Parseltongue to even access that place."

"The Chamber of Secrets." Hermione whispered in realization. "But Voldemort's the only one from the past century that can use Parseltongue, right? Aside from you, of course."

"The only one that has openly announced that he can use it." Harry corrected. "There might be hundreds of Wizards and Witches in Britain alone that can speak Parseltongue, but they might not even know themselves, or it might remain dormant for generations until it suddenly pops up in a 'dark' Wizard or Witch." Hermione snorted.

"On the other hand, Parseltongue _is _a language, which, technically, should be able to be learnt, if you have the determination. Black might just have had private classes from Voldemort – a Parseltongue S.O.S. of sorts – being his right hand man and all. _Or,_ option number three, remember what happened to Ginny last year?" Hermione frowned in thought.

"Of course," Harry continued, "This is all assuming that there _is_ a secret passageway leading from the Chamber to the Forest or Hogsmeade – which might not even be the case. I mean –" Harry glanced around, noting the other students close by, and shuffled his sleeping bag closer to Hermione's for a little privacy. It almost felt like they were lying in the same bag, now. "I mean," He continued in a hushed whisper, "that it could very well be that there is a Death Eater amongst the staff."

Hermione very nearly gasped, but managed to contain it to a small –_ cute_ – whimper instead, staring at her friend with wide, surprised eyes. Harry nodded, reading the unspoken question written on her face with ease of experience. "Yeah, I know it's hard to think, but – well, while most of the teachers are fairly well-known in their fields, nobody except Dumbledore really knows anything about, say, Professor Sinistra." He shrugged at her incredulous look. "I'm not accusing her, of course I'm not, but I'm just saying that it's definitely possible."

"You can't say that!" Hermione whispered furiously, frowning. "Dumbledore would've noticed if someone followed You-Know-Who like that! Plus, we hadn't even discounted the possibility of Black breaking in by himself!"

Harry sighed, rolling over onto his back to stare at the enchanted ceiling. Hermione was right, of course. As always. (_Except for Quirrell_, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, but he pushed that voice away without remorse. Quirrell had a part of Voldemort inhabiting him, and if anyone could get past Dumbledore, it would be Voldemort. But he wasn't about to voice that thought out loud.) "It's no use worrying about it now, anyway." Harry said instead. "Even if we catch Black, what are we going to do to him? Or, more accurately, what's he going to do to us?"

Hermione sighed despondently. "I suppose you're right."

As if on cue, Percy climbed back to the raised platform. "The lights are going out now!" He shouted. "I want everybody in their sleeping bags with no more talking!"

The torches around the hall went out, as if someone suddenly cut the power. The only light now came from the softly glowing ghosts, who were drifting about, talking seriously to the Prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars. With that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he was lying outdoors in a light wind.

"Goodnight, Harry." Hermione whispered.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

And not even a foot away, Ron was sitting on his sleeping bag, staring at his supposed friends in horrified amazement as they completely forgot about his existence.

Oo0oO

During the week that followed, theories ran wild on how Black got in the castle. Some said he found a way around the apparition wards, other claimed he simply waltzed in when nobody was around, and Neville's childhood friend Hannah would tell everyone who'd ask and those that wouldn't that Black could turn into shrubbery at will. But nobody ever claimed that everyone at Hogwarts was completely sane, did they?

Mostly, however, school progressed as usual. The painting of the Fat Lady, who was apparently hiding somewhere up on the second floor, had been removed and replaced with the painting of a valiant knight called Sir Cadogan and his friendly, squat, fat, grey pony. Unfortunately for the Gryffindors, Cadogan liked to think up ridiculously complicated passwords or even passphrases, most of them in Old English, which the majority couldn't even pronounce correctly after half a dozen attempts.

What made it even worse was that Sir Cadogan liked to quote Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Shouts along the lines of "Go boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person!" and "Now go away, you slimy Slytherin in disguise, or I shall taunt you a second time!" sounded more than a dozen times every hour, to the point where Gryffindors were tempted to imitate Black and rip the portrait to pieces. Of course, they never did, because, as Dumbledore had told them, Sir Cadogan had been the only one brave enough to volunteer for the Fat Lady's vacant role, which meant that they'd be left practically defenceless against exploring Slytherins.

Sir Cadogan, as horrid as he was, wasn't the worst of Harry's problems. Though the twins seemed to trust him a lot more after he didn't rat them out, Professors seemed to find excuses to walk along with him everywhere he went, as did Percy, more than likely on his mother's orders. The only one that didn't track him everywhere was Snape, and Harry suspected that the rare few times he was able to go somewhere without the interference of a Professor or Percy was because Snape was cooped up in his office instead of helping him escape the imaginary Black, and Harry was surprised to find himself grateful to the greasy old bat.

But of course, as if things weren't bad enough already, Professor McGonads, as Ron had taken to calling her these days, had to summon Harry to her office a week before the match, looking so grim-faced that Harry thought Black had kidnapped all of Hogsmeade's children and ate them alive.

"I suppose that there is no point in hiding it from you any longer, Mr. Potter, especially after what happened during the Hogsmeade trip." It wasn't a far stretch that Dumbledore had told his deputy, and Harry had already guessed that he'd done so. "I know that this might come as a shock for you, but Black is –"

"– out for me." Harry finished, and Professor McGonagall did a double-take at how comfortable he looked with the knowledge. "He's my Godfather, and betrayed my parents to Voldemort. Minister Fudge told me as much when we talked briefly after I got to Diagon."

"I – I see." Professor McGonagall stared at Harry for a few seconds, and nodded. "Well, in that case, I think you'll understand why I'm going to forbid you from continuing Quidditch practice in the evenings. You're very exposed, out on the pitch –"

"What? Why!" Harry cried, outraged. "We've got our first match coming up in a week! I've got to train, Professor!"

She remained silent, regarding him for several seconds, before folding in on herself, giving in to his not-quite-argument easier than a Hermione persuaded with books. "Well, goodness knows I'd like to see us win the cup at last…" Professor McGonagall sighed, and rubbed the bridge of her nose in defeat. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I'll ask Professor Lupin to oversee your sessions. Madam Hooch would probably have been better, but we can't risk a former Slytherin possibly leaking information. Ask Mr. Wood to hand me a copy of your training schedule the next Transfiguration lesson he has. This does mean no more impromptu training sessions, but I don't think anyone on the team – save for, perhaps. Mr. Wood – will truly mind."

Harry smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Professor."

Oo0oO

Over the following week, the weather gradually worsened. It seemed as if, with each passing day, the skies were looking darker, the winds were howling harsher, and the rain was pouring down even harder than before, almost like an unstoppable freight train you know is going to hit you right in the face and you can't do anything about it.

However, the Gryffindor team kept training, harder than ever, under the watchful eye of Professor Lupin, who had fashioned himself a surprisingly good-looking umbrella and could always be seen at the top of his detection spell-game from under his hiding spot. That Thursday, at their final training session before the match, Captain Wood came by with some rather pleasing news.

"Flint tried to bribe Madam Hooch!" He announced happily. "Didn't want to play in this kind of weather, apparently. As a penalty, they're only allowed two switches, instead of the usual three."

Alicia frowned. "But none of the teams have any reserves, so that doesn't matter at all."

"That's not the point!" Oliver crowed, shaking his head. "Now, Madam Hooch won't like Flint, which means that she won't be biased for Slytherin, like usual."

"Really? She is?" Harry asked, just as confused as the rest of the team. "I hadn't noticed, actually."

"Well of course she is!" Captain Wood said, sounding quite confused at their disbelieving. "She's a former Slytherin! She has to be! But we're wasting precious time here, so get on your brooms, people!"

"Aye, Captain." The team mumbled unenthusiastically, before shooting up into the air. From a few feet away, Lupin chuckled softly, looking out over the pitch for any sign of his old friend – or rather, the man that had killed Harry's parents. One could hardly say, after all, that there was any love lost between them.

Oo0oO

It was the day before the match, and odds were looking as good for Gryffindor as the weather was looking horrible for the rest of Hogwarts. Due to a combination of pompousness, being spoiled since they were in diapers by their parents, and, as Angelina put it, lack of Quaffles down below, the Slytherin team hadn't taken the time to train in anything harsher than a small drizzle, believing that they would be able to get around them by bribing and lying. As such, they would be heavily underprepared for the match that was to come.

Hermione, sitting at a desk next to Harry's, sighed. "I still can't put your theory out of my head, Harry." They were in the DADA classroom, waiting for Professor Lupin, who was, like always, around five minutes late. Nobody blamed him, though, as he was by far the best DADA professor they had ever had.

Harry smiled at his friend. "It as far-fetched a theory as Grindelwald still being alive in that prison Dumbledore put him in. I highly doubt that the Chamber has a passage, and even if it did, Black would have to know Parseltongue to get through, which I highly doubt he knows."

"The chances of airplanes crashing down is small as well, but it still happens…" Hermione muttered, not convinced in the least. Harry was about to say something else, but they were interrupted by their professor – who wasn't at all who they were expecting.

"Detestable afternoon, class." Snape sneered as he strode in, cloak billowing dramatically behind him. "I would apologize for being late, but I think all of us agree that less contact between myself and any of you is better than the alternative." He sat down at Lupin's desk, and took out a copy of the DADA book. "As Lupin has left no record of the topics you have covered so far –"

"Sir?" Dean called out daringly, exchanging glances with Seamus. "Where is Professor Lupin?"

Snape sighed, and put the book aside. "Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn, and another five for asking inane questions." Dean scowled, but didn't look overly surprised. "I would think it fairly obvious that, as the… _esteemed_ Professor –" Snape scowled at that – "isn't here right now, that he is somewhere else. It is not my job to tell you where he is, and it certainly isn't my job to monitor his position every second of the day, but if you must know, he is currently feeling… unwell, and is lying in the hospital wing. Madam Hooch is with him, and, as she will likely remain at his side, I shall be overseeing tomorrow's match."

He smirked as several Gryffindors cried out in distress, before returning to scowling. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for speaking loudly. Now, as I was saying before, as Lupin has left no record of the topics you have covered so far, you will open your books on page…"

Harry wasn't listening to Snape's speech, however; he was staring at his desk, stupefied. Considering how biased Snape normally was, and how fanatic his rivalry with the Quidditch-obsessed Professor McGonagall was, this was bad. As in, Gryffindor-could-possibly-lose-the-game bad_._

_Oliver is going to be pissed._

Oo0oO

The next morning arrived dark and dreary, and Harry felt as nervous as he had in his first match, back in first year. Alicia and Angelina, who were surprisingly good brewers, had snuck the entire team sleeping potions the evening before, and it was likely that they hadn't slept at all without them; as it was, they were still up and awake around five in the morning, and downstairs discussing tactics thirty minutes later.

Around six, Fred and George disappeared, and came in minutes later, each carrying a plate with three full English breakfasts, which would be more than enough to feed the entire team on a normal evening, let alone a tension-filled morning such as then. Apparently the kitchen's House Elves were more than happy to cook for anyone who asked, no matter the time of day. Together, they barely managed to scrounge away two full plates; the other four were given to Ron, who happily gulped them all down before declaring that he'd be going downstairs for quintuples.

They stayed in the Common room until after the breakfast in the Great Hall was over. It was around nine o'clock when, encouraged by Sir Cadogan's shout of "I fart in your general direction!" which went accompanied by a frankly hopeless imitation of a fart, they finally made their way to the changing rooms.

The weather, if such a thing were possible, was even worse than the day before. Rain was pouring down in buckets, as if there was a massive leak in Heaven's sewage system and nobody up above had noticed it yet. Dark grey clouds were blocking the sun from coming through, and despite it being morning, it looked as if it were evening. Gales of wind blew away any umbrellas students might have brought, and Professor McGonagall's hat was only saved by the Headmaster, who snatched it just before it could land in the Black Lake.

In the changing rooms, Oliver tried to give his usual pre-match speech, but made an odd gulping noise each time he tried to say something. Instead, Fred clapped Harry on the shoulder, and grinned rather weakly at the Seeker. "Get the Snitch," He said firmly, "or die trying." Harry somehow managed a small smile back. Everyone chuckled a bit at the unofficial motto – though Oliver's sounded more like a forced gurgle – and it was silent for a few seconds, until Captain Wood simply shook his head and beckoned them to follow him.

As they walked out into the pitch, a massive wind blasted their side, nearly knocking them over. If the crowd was making any noise whatsoever, Harry couldn't hear it; he could barely even see them with the heavy rain pelting down around them. It was only through a permanent Impervius charm built into the glasses that he managed to see anything; if it wasn't for that, he probably would have been unable to see anything at all.

From the other side of the pitch, the Slytherins approached, blending in rather well with their dark background. Slowly, the two teams approached the centre of the stadium, where Snape was waiting, sneering around. Harry spotted Snape's mouth making the words 'mount your brooms', not even attempting to make the two Captains shake hands. It was probably for the best, as it would have been more than likely that they would have tried to punch each other instead.

There were fourteen squelches as everyone pulled their feet out of the mud that covered the ground – not that anyone could hear anything, the rain blocked pretty much anything – before they swung their legs over their brooms and waited on Snape's signal. The greasy Professor raised his wand, which let out a loud BANG; at once, everyone shot into the air, chasing after the Quaffle as fast as they could. Unfortunately for the Slytherins, the Gryffindors had been training in this weather for the past week, so they had no problem flying against the harsh winds. Flint and his Chaser lackeys were quickly left in the dust.

Unlike his colleagues, the Slytherin Keeper seemed to be doing quite well under the wind's assault. He was already hovering in front of the goal when Alicia approached with the Quaffle, and managed to block her first shot. "And Alicia shoots – but Bletchley blocks expertly!" Lee's voice shouted over the raging winds, aided by Dumbledore's extremely powerful Sonorous. "Don't be disheartened, Alicia dear, it's only your first shot!"

From nearby Lee, Professor McGonagall shouted, coming over as only a muffled mumble to Harry's ears; "Mr. Jordan! If you want to ask Miss Spinnet out on a date, do it in your own time! Don't bother us with it!"

"Fine, Professor…" Lee grumbled, and from his vantage point high up in the air, Harry chuckled. Until Captain Wood called him, he would remain circling the pitch and just doing his job as a Seeker; however, when Wood called him, the game would finally truly begin.

As the match progressed, it seemed that, with Snape's obvious bias, Slytherin was matching Gryffindor, despite the weather conditions. Obvious faults on the Slytherins' side would be completely ignored, with only the worst of the worst being acknowledged, while minor faults normally overlooked by even the World Tournament referee on the Gryffindors' side would be given massive penalties.

When the score was at 190-200 for Gryffindor – over 100 of the Slytherins' points had been made through unfairly granted penalty shots – Wood called for a break just after having intercepted a sloppy shot from one of Slytherin's chasers, and quickly huddled together with his teammates.

"Right." Oliver began promptly, frowning around the small circle they'd made. "Harry, it's time to break out our secret weapon. You ready for this?" Harry nodded. "So, just like we discussed – I'll give Angelina the Quaffle. Try to get close to the goal, but pass to Alicia or Katie when necessary. Once we get close to the goal, whoever has the Quaffle needs to throw it at Harry, who'll swoop down from above and punt it in. Got it?"

Katie rolled her eyes, wiping a soaked strand of hair away from her eyes. "No, we haven't got it, Oliver. It isn't like you've told us this three million times in the past two days."

"You haven't?" Oliver was apparently incapable of understanding sarcasm while under stress, and nodded seriously. "Alright. So we'll go over it again – I'll give Angelina –"

"We've got it, Oliver!" Harry interrupted hastily, and glanced over at Snape, who was, as always sneering. "Let's get going – Snape looks like he's about to subtract a hundred points for taking too long."

"Right." Oliver nodded again, mounting his broom alongside his team before passing the Quaffle to Angelina and nodding to Snape, to signal they were ready. Just like before, Snape raised his wand and let out a loud BANG, and everyone shot up into the air – but unlike before, Harry didn't go up as far as he dared. Instead, he circled around to the Slytherin's goalpost the fastest he could without making it seem like he was actually joining the Chasers in their assault.

When the Quaffle had been passed from Angelina to Katie, Katie to Alicia, and from Alicia back to Katie, it was nearing the goal, and Katie tossed it as hard as she could up to where it would shoot far over the top of the goal. The Keeper, Bletchley, was scratching his head confusedly as he watched the ball sail through the air uselessly; but unnoticed by him, Harry swerved around, and kicked the ball straight into the rightmost goal.

The Slytherin team stared stupidly for a few seconds as the Quaffle drifted down to the ground, where Angelina calmly scooped it up and threw it up at Bletchley, who was supposed to throw the ball into play again. Down on the ground, Snape seethed quietly, but knew that he couldn't do anything about the fourth chaser that had suddenly joined the Gryffindors' team.

With Harry playing with them as well, the Slytherins were toast, despite Snape's best efforts. Hundreds of new and unpredictable manoeuvres, drilled into their heads over the course of two-and-a-half months by Captain Wood, were suddenly possible, and with a score of 260-400 for Gryffindor, the only thing that could still save the Slytherins was the Snitch which, unfortunately for Gryffindor, Malfoy had just spotted.

Unlike his previous lazy pace, the blonde ponce was speeding upwards, chasing after nothing but clouds and – Harry squinted – a small golden glint in the harsh winds. Without prompting from Oliver, Harry sped after the two, quickly catching up to them as they passed his higher altitude. Seemingly unbothered by the harsher and harsher winds, the Snitch kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing, to the point where Harry couldn't see the ground any more, and the massive Quidditch Pitch towers were tiny blimps at the very edge of his vision.

Now, it goes without saying that Malfoy is a massive wimp – quite possibly the wimpiest person, man or woman, that has ever graced the halls of Hogwarts, in Harry's humbly unbiased opinion – and when he found that he couldn't see the ground anymore, he pissed his pants and fainted, falling down with surprising speed and leaving a disgusting trail of yellow liquid in his wake.

Harry scrunched up his nose, but kept his eyes on the Snitch, which was going… just about every direction except downwards, actually. Pretty soon they would meet the thundering clouds up above, and – _Whoops, face full of cloud. Are we really going that fast?_

Something odd happened, however, once they got to the open skies above the clouds. An eerie silence was falling. The wind, as strong as ever, suddenly fell silent. The rain had let up, of course, but Harry couldn't even hear the thunder and lightning from down below anymore. Oxygen was suddenly hard to come by, but even as he breathed harder and harder, everything was still as silent as could be.

Then, a powerful wave of cold hit him, a freezing, soul-chilling, familiar cold; and before he could think about it, Harry had taking his eyes off the Snitch and looked down.

At least a – _onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineohfuckit – _lot of Dementors were staring up at him, their faces hidden in their hoods. Strategically choosing to ignore the growing problem below him, Harry instead tried to go even faster, stretching out his hand to catch the Snitch as soon as it made the slightest mistake –

But then a Dementor was suddenly upon him, his hood down and ready to suck out his soul in quite possibly the most horrific way possible. Half a second later, and a new way had been discovered to get rid of Dementors – kick 'em in the nuts. Dementors might be soul-sucking demons, but at least half of them are still men; men with things more important than such a trifle and petty thing as a soul to protect.

After around a minute of trying fruitlessly to catch the Snitch, it became clear that it was going to take something drastic to catch it. Most of the time, Seekers caught the snitch by surprising it, or by having its path blocked by some object or person. However, in the empty skies far, far above the pitch, such a thing was impossible, and it was going to take something else to catch it. Something that would surprise the Snitch. Briefly, Harry doubted whether he could pull this off, but then, he remembered Fred's pep talk, and decided to just do it. After all: "Get the Snitch, or die trying!"

When the Snitch straightened out its flight for just a bit, Harry gripped his broom tightly and pushed himself upwards, so that he stood on top of his broom; it was something he had been practicing for the past two years, around a foot from the ground, simply because it looked cool. However, a thousand feet in the air, it was a lot less 'cool', and more 'heart-jumping-into-throat frightening'; so, without even stopping to think about what the bloody hell he was doing, he jumped, and snagged the Snitch out of the air just before he came to his senses and realised – _Fuck. I'm dead._

Slowly, getting faster by the second, he fell straight past the Dementors, back through the clouds, and down below, to where he could see the pitch coming up to meet him – or rather, him coming down to meet the pitch. One of the enchantments on the Snitch prevented it from leaving the Pitch, though it could go as low or high as it wished, so Harry knew that he would land someplace where he could possibly still be saved by one of the professors – any players intercepting him would probably end up the same as him due to his velocity, which would be less than ideal.

And then – he was laughing. It probably sounded a bit crazy to the shocked audience, but he didn't care, because he was having fun. Adrenaline junky? Of course he was. Every Quidditch player had to be, sitting on thin sticks hundreds of feet above the ground. He was a hundred feet from the ground now – and just when he stopped having fun at fifty feet and finally started worrying about ending up as a pancake, Harry felt his body slowing down, and he saw a badass-looking Dumbledore pointing his wand at him, powerful magic swirling visibly around the tip. He let out a last whoop as he came to a rest on the clearly cushioned ground before lifting his hand in the air – showing the snitch held within.

The stunned silence was broken by the ever-so-eloquent Lee Jordan. "That… he… I…" there was a silence of a few seconds, and anyone near him would have seen his eyes grow wide. "Is that the snitch? Yes! Potter's caught the snitch! It's a Gryffindor victory!" And then the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs cheered, the Ravenclaws that weren't taking notes about the spell Dumbledore used clapped politely, and the Slytherins all sneered, scowled, or glared angrily. Snape didn't seem to know whether to sneer, scowl, glare, or throw a temper tantrum, so he just settled for brooding silently, but Harry didn't care either way, because – he grinned at the teary-eyed Oliver, still stuck high up in the sky but quickly coming down to meet him – they'd won.

The teams landed soon after Lee's proclamation. The Gryffindors crowded around Harry, clapping him on the back and, in the case of the Chaser trio, asking if he was alright; the Slytherins acted like Snape, and stomped off to the showers to pout. Then, Gryffindors began streaming onto the pitch, crowding around the team happily; however, disaster struck soon after, in the form of Hurricane Hermione.

"_HARRY JAMES POTTER!_" She screamed, soaked to the bone, storming through the crowd angrily. None of them paid any attention to Hermione, though, as they were too busy partying – Harry glanced around for help, he really did, but nobody was there to answer his call. "Of all the irresponsible –" Finally, she reached Harry, and hugged him tightly, until he was struggling to breathe. "Did you have any idea how worried I was?" She whispered hoarsely into his shoulder, barely hearable over the background noise. Just as Harry gulped, realizing that, no, he hadn't thought of that, Hermione stepped back and slapped him across the face. Hard. It didn't budge his confused face, but still hurt. A lot. But seconds later, she was in his arms again, crying. A now even more confused Harry hugged her again, staring down at her concernedly.

"Prat… doesn't realize… thought you were dead… worried…" Hermione mumbled something that Harry could only hear bits and pieces of, before she looked up, and Harry realized that she had stopped crying.

Suddenly, she closed her eyes, and before Harry's oblivious man-brain could think to ask what she was about to do, she reached up, held his neck tightly with both hands, and kissed him.

Years later, Harry would claim all sorts of stuff, that the world exploded around them as all the students cheered for their new relationship, and the happiness of his heart suddenly made his magic burst and blow away the rain and clouds in a fit of pure emotion, but it was none of that. Their faces were wet from the rain, Hermione's hair flew around wildly in the harsh winds, and Harry's glasses obstructed the kiss from deepening beyond the first few seconds. It was a sloppy kiss, a first time on both accounts, and the pent-up emotions from the match and months of buried attraction made it a whole lot more passionate than they could handle, but it was glorious, and perfect, and despite the whipping winds, and roaring winds, and pushing and pulling and partying students all around them, it was much, much better than Harry's wildest dreams had ever imagined it would be, because somehow, everything suddenly felt _right_.

They remained there, arms around each other, completely ignoring reality, for as long as they could; but when they finally did return, they found the pitch completely empty, and devoid of any other signs of life. They were silent for a few seconds, just holding each other, before Harry spoke up. "You know, I knew that I had fallen for you, but I'd never imagined this."

Hermione giggled, and slapped his shoulder. "Cheesy bastard." She mumbled fondly, and somehow, Harry wasn't too surprised by her cursing. "Don't think you're out of trouble yet – it'll take a lot more to convince me."

"Oh really?" Harry asked, a teasing smile dancing across his face, before kissing her again; a short peck, this time, but Hermione beamed regardless. "Was I on the right track?"

"Why don't you try to find out?" Hermione smirked, and reached forwards to give him another kiss.

_Best. Night. Ever._

Oo0oO

Sirius crawled through the thick overgrowth, trying to find the cement trapdoor that led to the chamber he had made his home, holding his food for the next week – a freshly-caught deer – over his shoulder. "Where's it at…" He whispered roughly, glancing around the small clearing with annoyed, grey eyes. "Come on, trapdoor… where are you… Ah, got you."

He cleared away the leaves and branches that he had put over the entrance as camouflage, and gazed at the curling snake trapdoor's handle, trying to imagine it as a real snake. "_Open in the name of your lord, Sssalazar Ssslytherin!_" Sirius hissed, and coughed weakly immediately after. The grating sound of stone grinding on stone filled the tiny clearing, and the door slowly moved out of the way.

"Imagine if Prongs could see me now." He barked a weak laugh, crawling into the newly formed passageway. "Blasted genetics…"

* * *

**_Bet ya hadn't expected that, did ya?_**

**_No worries, Sirius is still a good guy. He's merely a bit deranged from his stay in Azkaban, and so what if he knows Parseltongue? It's just another language, after all. Maybe not to the majority of the population, but who cares about them? As far as we know, they don't even have names._**

**_One thing I am kinda sorta worried about, though, is if I did the kissing scene correctly. Considering that I've never actually kissed anyone outside my family, which I stopped doing when I was five years old, that was a metric butt-fuck ton of bullshitting and guesswork. The only relationship I've ever had was in one of my first years of elementary school, but I didn't even know that I was in a relationship with her until her best friend came over during lunch break and told me it was over -.-_**

**_Whatever._**

**_-The Baron_**


	9. Part 2 - Episode 5

**_A/N: THIS IS IMPORTANT SHIT, SO READ, DAMMIT! _**

**_Somebody recently accused me of Idiot Balling my way through this. What nobody seems to understand is that Sirius is deranged as a motherfucker. Thirteen years of Azkaban isn't going to get fixed in three months without _****any ****_outside help, people. That's why he didn't immediately shout out 'Peter's still alive' or anything along those lines._**

**_Somebody guessed that he came into contact with Slytherin's locket in Grimmauld and got possessed by Voldemort, which would explain his Animagus form's red eyes, and the Parseltongue. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no such thing. Sirius is still Sirius, and the red eyes is just the Grim. The Parseltongue has a different reason, which will become apparent later._**

**_-The Baron_**

* * *

**Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce**

**Episode V **

News of Harry and Hermione's new relationship spread through Wizarding England like the hatred of Snape amongst first years, and when they sat down at breakfast the next morning, and angry-looking Ron shoved a newspaper in the happy new couple's faces.

"Just read." He growled.

_BOY-WHO-LIVED IN RELATIONSHIP!  
THREATENED, SEDUCED, OR LOVE POTION?_

_In the aftermath of this year's first Quidditch match at Hogwarts (Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, see page 7), several students and a teacher reported seeing Harry kissing an unknown, plain-looking girl. We all know our beloved hero wouldn't fall for a plain old Muggleborn tramp – instead picking from the upper echelons of Wizarding society, from names such as Heiresses Greengrass, Patil, and Parkinson – which begs the question; how did she manage snag the Boy-Who-Lived?_

_One Slytherin student in the same year group as the Muggleborn had this to say about her yearmate: "She is always soaking up attention from the teachers, but she's nothing more than a know-it-all. I wouldn't be surprised if she's slept with several of them, just to get good grades – nobody can get straight O's in every subject."_

_The Muggleborn is reportedly good at brewing potions, which gives weight behind the theory of a Love Potion being used. "Seduce? Her?" Heir Draco Malfoy said when we questioned him on the subject, sounding confused. "She wouldn't be able to seduce a one-Knut-an-hour prostitute hag if she tried. They'd turn her away. A boring girl as her – not even Pothead (Heir Malfoy's friendly nickname for the Boy-Who-Lived) would fall for that."_

"_I highly doubt that she would be able to threaten anyone." A potions expert close to the school has said with a sneer. "Lupin is highly incapable of teaching anything, as was made clear when I had to replace him last Friday – the class was a mess. For the past three years, Hogwarts has housed a variety of sub-par moronic dunderheads as Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers; and, loathe as I am to say it, Potter does have some degree of competence in the field, despite being a little sissy that isn't able to tie his own shoelaces without help."_

_The-Boy-Who-Lived and the Muggleborn were unavailable for comment._

_By Rita Skeeter_

In half a minute, Harry went from happy to thunderous, and wrapped an arm around Hermione, who was leaning in to his side, reading along with him. "Don't listen to the Prophet, Hermione." Harry murmured into her hair. "They're all just trying to get to me. You're most certainly _not_ plain, and I don't know who could even think such a thing."

She looked up, smiled, and kissed Harry softly. "It's really sweet of you to say that, Harry." Hermione said, sounding surprisingly calm. "I'm not all that mad, you know. This _is_ Malfoy we're talking about here. He'd claim his mother was a 'one-Knut-an-hour prostitute hag' if it'd get him some attention. Parkinson goes along with her hubby, and the 'potions expert'," she quoted, shooting a dirty look at the Head Table, "is just a prat."

"Still, this isn't merely gossip, and I'm pretty sure that outright slander isn't included on the list of things the press is allowed to print." Harry sighed, shooting his girlfriend a concerned look. "Are you sure you won't allow me to sue? At the risk of sounding like Malfoy," He grimaced, "my trust vault should be able to cover the price of a lawyer, and I'd readily pay for one, because your reputation as a decent person _is_ on the line here –"

"I'm sure." Hermione reassured, snuggling into his side with a happy smile. "Besides, Witch Weekly prints this sort of stuff every week, you know."

"Wait, what?" Harry blinked, his tactfully employed selective hearing filtering out what he really didn't want to know. "You're subscribed to Witch Weekly?"

Hermione giggled slightly. "No, of course I'm not – Parvati and Lavender are, though, and they insist on sharing everything with the entire dorm." She rolled her eyes. "They've been gossiping about you for years."

"Hmm." Harry hummed, mentally bleaching the idea that Witch Weekly – _Witch Weekly!_ – was printing about him from his mind.

He glanced around the hall briefly. The Slytherins were all sniggering, pointing at the front page article, as expected; the Ravenclaws didn't seem to really give a crap, and Hufflepuff clearly didn't know what to think. The Gryffindors were either glowering at the Slytherin table, glowering at the Prophet, or glowering at Snape, who was being pelted with food by Professor Lupin, who in turn looked ready to rip him to pieces. Professor Sprout was trying to dissolve the issue, but wasn't really helping, while McGonagall and Flitwick were actively encouraging Lupin. The rest was just looking on, though most did put up some form of protection once Lupin and Snape started throwing with food; and in the middle of the chaos, Dumbledore was calmly sipping a cup of tea as bacon, eggs, beans, toast, sausages, plates, cups, and whatever else the two children could get their hands on zipped past his forehead.

Suddenly, the Headmaster's hand shot out, and he snagged a sandwich right out of the air, happily taking a bite out of its side before throwing the remainder at his own Potions Professor alongside Professor Lupin's ammunition with a chuckle; and Snape gaped at him long enough for Professor Lupin to nail him in the face with a raw egg, which promptly split open and splashed egg white all over his face.

Harry snorted, turning back to his own table as he put the Prophet's idiocy out of his mind. "Pass the bread, would you, Ron?"

Oo0oO

Ron was looking a lot happier the next morning when Harry and Hermione came down for breakfast, munching away on a giant sausage in a way that raised many questions about his sexuality.

Strategically choosing to ignore that, Harry plopped down next to him. "What's got you so happy?"

"This." Ron handed Harry a Daily Prophet, which was covered in grease and barbecue sauce. Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust and, with a twirl of her wand, cast a cleaning charm, which smoothened out the paper and cleaned up the disgusting spots. Now that Harry could actually see the front page, he blinked as he spotted a small article, all the way in the bottom left corner, hiding behind a massive picture of Black.

_Potter Seduction Statement Retracted._

_We at the Daily Prophet apologize for Miss Skeeter's actions on Sunday.  
The Daily Prophet hereby formally retracts Miss Skeeter's statements, and will look out for further mistakes in the future._

_By the Daily Prophet staff_

Hermione frowned, and slapped Harry softly on his shoulder. "Honestly, Harry, if you were going to hire a lawyer anyways you could've at least told me –"

"But I didn't!" Harry protested. "I didn't hire anyone, or talk to anyone, or anything! I just – I did what you asked me to do, and didn't do anything about it."

"But," Hermione frowned, "If it wasn't you, then who could've done that?"

"…Maybe the director or the shareholders hadn't seen the article, and told the paper to retract it when he realised it had been published?" Harry suggested weakly, shrugging at their disbelieving looks. "I mean, it's possible, right?"

"I suppose." Hermione muttered, her frown deepening, before it suddenly cleared away. "Either way, it doesn't really matter. We shouldn't be looking a gift horse in the mouth."

Harry nodded and was about to voice his agreement when he was distracted by Alicia and Katie, who were looking quite miserable as they walked over. Alicia was holding a picnic basket, while Katie was carrying a wrapped bundle. Without saying anything, Katie made some space on the table, and put the bundle down.

"We were about to eat, near the Whomping Willow, when we spotted this lying on the ground." Katie said sadly, with downcast eyes. "Just – just promise you won't quit Quidditch, okay?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Harry asked, staring at the bundle in sudden apprehension.

Katie shared a glance with Alicia, before they unwrapped the bundle. It was a pile of sticks; sleek, varnished sticks, way too fancy to be random branches you find all over the Forbidden Forest's floor. Harry was about to ask what it was all about, when he spotted a distinct handle peeking out from the pile. Almost mockingly, the gold, cursive _Nimbus 2000_ blinked in the Great Hall's light, as if it was freshly carved there.

"Your broom ended up in the Whomping Willow." Alicia whispered sadly.

Oo0oO

Harry wallowed in self-pity for the rest of the day. At dinner, however, Hermione got fed up with it, and told him quite plainly that, while she understood that he had been highly attached to the broom, she would take away his new boyfriend privileges if he didn't man up already and started looking for a new broom in the catalogue Oliver had given him.

On a completely unrelated note, the aforementioned Captain reportedly had tried to drown himself in the showers that evening. Unfortunately for his team's muscles, it didn't work.

The next Monday, when Ginny finally reappeared from behind her bed's curtains, looking more depressed than anyone had ever seen her, and after Seamus had decided blowing up his rock in Transfiguration was a marvellous idea, Lupin had taken Harry aside after their DADA class. Then, he proceeded to give quite the long explanation, where all he really said was that Dementors were quite scary, and that there was only one known defence against them, but that it was really difficult to learn, so they weren't going to get started on that until next term. He then kicked Harry out of his office, without really having given him a chance to deny the offer of extra training; not that he wanted to, of course, but it was a matter of principle.

As the end of term approached, the nights grew longer, skies whiter, and weather colder, until the final week, when the entire Forbidden Forest, covered in crisp white snow, looked beautiful for the first time since Harry came to Hogwarts. To the delight of the students, Headmaster Dumbledore had given them the day off school because, in his words, "Nobody should be cooped up in a dark classroom when there's snow to be thrown and faces to be peppered."

Fifteen minutes later, the (possibly lunatic) hundred and fifty-year-old was actively participating in the massive snow fight taking place on the grounds, taking on the entire student population at once by casting spells that turned huge amounts of snow into hundreds upon hundreds of snowballs and others that made giant walls of snow pop up all around him – to the point where he was standing in a small castle, casting blindly at the hundreds of students participating in the siege of Fort Dumbledore – while the other Professors and the Slytherins, some of the Ravenclaws, and Hermione watched disbelievingly from a distance.

Aside from this, there was also another Hogsmeade trip on the last weekend before Christmas, and the second-years had been allowed to owl their parents with a one-time Hogsmeade Permission slip - apparently, this was done every year except Harry's second year, when the Basilisk was still an unknown assailant and it was deemed too dangerous. Hermione and Harry, who was planning to sneak out the same way he had at Halloween, decided to forego a first date in favour of doing their Christmas shopping ("Talk about taking things slow." Ron found himself commenting. "Taking three months for the first date is a rather long time, isn't it? When's the wedding going to be? 'Round the third millennium? Fourth?").

The problem was, Harry _really_ didn't know what to get them. Sure, he could give Ron some kind of Quidditch collectible again and Hermione another book, but he wanted to do something else. Something more substantial than same old, same old. Something that would make them, in a few decades, say, 'That? Oh, I got it from Harry. Isn't it lovely?' instead of 'That? I'd completely forgotten about that old thing. I can't remember.' Besides, just another book was hardly boyfriend-girlfriend gift material. Not to mention that he didn't have a clue what Ginny and Neville, who both had slowly grown closer to the trio, would like.

As Harry strolled through Hogsmeade, window-shopping through the snow-packed ground, he couldn't help but wonder – would Hermione even appreciate jewellery? She never wore any, but that didn't mean that she wouldn't if she could. But if not jewellery, what then? Books fell straight into the same old, same old category, and certainly wouldn't fit for his first ever gift to his girlfriend.

Thinking deeply as he was, Harry never noticed the lamppost standing in his path until his face made contact, and he fell down on the ground, dazed. Several students noticed and sniggered, but nobody made a move to help, save for a passing old man, who extended a hand. Harry accepted, and pulled himself up, brushing his coat afterwards. "Thank you, sir. I wasn't looking where I was going."

The old man hummed thoughtfully, and looked him over briefly. "You look like you could use a listening ear, young man. Come with me." Then, he turned and walked off, leaving a surprised Harry watching his back, before he hurried after him, figuring that he could at least humour the old man; he didn't really have anything better to do, not when he still didn't know what to get his friends.

"I'm Harry, sir. Harry Potter." Harry offered. The man glanced at him, but merely kept walking, not offering any reply. Harry scratched the back of his neck nervously as he tried to keep up with the spry old man's fast pace. "If I may, where are we going? I mean, most people go to the Hog's Head to meet, though some might prefer the Three Broomsticks –"

"We are going to my shop." Harry's acquaintance said shortly. "And kindly stay silent until we get there – you never know who might be listening."

Harry blinked. "True, but even if they were listening – whoever they might be – what could they possibly glean from our conversation? Nothing even remotely interesting, I'd think."

"Well, you don't know everything." The old man retorted. "Now, be silent and –" He threw one of the bags he was holding into Harry's arms, "help me carry this." Harry glanced down, and wrinkled his nose when he saw the Brussel's Sprouts lying on top.

Not that far away, a brown rat tried to scurry after the two humans, cursing his annoying little rat feet as he was quickly left in the dust.

Oo0oO

"I must say, it's not often that I have so many visitors here." The old man said, chuckling as he hung his coat by the door. "Two in a decade, that's got to be a new record."

"Sir?" Harry asked, baffled. The strange old man had led him towards the weird shop he'd come across on his last Hogsmeade visit, _Ye Olde Bookshoppe_. It wasn't the most hospitable place – rather dark and dusty, really – but with two visitors a decade being a lot, it didn't really need to be.

"Oh, yes – I suppose that I should introduce myself now. Antioch, Antioch Peverell. Nice to meet you, young man." 'Antioch' said, moving through an open door to the back of his shop, where Harry heard him rummage around in a cabinet. "Now, where did I put that kettle..?"

"Antioch Peverell? As in, Tales of Beetle the Bard's Antioch Peverell?" Harry asked warily, already bringing out his wand; on one of Harry's trips to the library with Hermione – to study, of course, because under Madam Pince's watchful eye even couples simply teasing each other were frowned upon – he'd come across the book lying around, forgotten, on one of the tables, and had given it a cursory read. It had been surprisingly addicting, but the problem was – that Antioch had lived around the thirteenth century, not the twentieth.

"Well, I'd think so, yes." Antioch said nonchalantly, sticking his head around the door post. "And I'd put that wand away if I were you. Any spell cast while in this shop will backfire horrendously. I forgot once, and accidently levitated myself instead of the book I was trying to grab. Now, do you want some tea? I've only got Earl Grey, I'm afraid."

Harry, thrown off by the sudden change in personality, answered on autopilot. "Er – sure, two sugar, no milk."

"Coming right up." Antioch said happily, and a few seconds later, Harry heard a kettle start whistling. "Now," The old man said as he returned, "You were talking about Beetle's tales?"

"I was, yes." Harry frowned. "Considering that the tale is quite a few centuries old, it seems rather impossible that you're still alive, because I highly doubt that someone invented another way to become immortal, other than a Philosopher's stone, and possibly an accumulation of hundreds of Dark rituals."

"And you'd be correct in saying that, if it weren't for the runes placed around this shop." Antioch answered the silent question. "If your Beetle's tales are halfway correct, he'd be calling my brothers the most magically powerful Wizards of their time. And this isn't just boasting, the entire Magical World accepted it as a fact. I'm not saying that they were the most skilled Wizards – even I, on a good day, could beat them both at once without breaking a sweat – but they were the most _powerful_ Wizards, a distinct difference. I drew up a few runes that would slow time down by seven times – one day for each week – and they poured all of their power into it, leaving them magically drained for a week. Suddenly, I age a hundred-and-twenty-five years for every… Well, I think it's been nearly seven hundred years now?"

Harry's jaw went slack. "S-so…" He stammered, "You're, like, two hundred years old?"

"Well, yes," Antioch agreed, "but, as long as they don't get sick or get killed, Wizards can live up to around three hundred. I do believe the oldest Witch in recorded history – and keep in mind, this was before air pollution was a thing – was nearly four-hundred-and-fifty."

"Oh." Harry coughed. Well. That was a thing. "So Dumbledore's, like, barely entered puberty?"

"Of course not." Antioch chuckled. "Last I heard, he's around a hundred and fifty, which is a far call from fifteen." He stood up from behind the counter, and headed back into the kitchen. "I'll make the tea – you can browse around, see if anything catches your eye."

"I've been wondering," Harry began, following Antioch into the – perfectly Muggle – kitchen. "You said earlier that two visits in a decade is a record. Why? Even though time's slower in here, that should still be, what, three years of overlap?"

"Four-and-a-half, actually." Antioch corrected, starting to look a little annoyed at his incessant questioning. "And most people don't even know of this shop's existence."

"Why?" Harry couldn't stop himself from asking. "I mean, it's not exactly like nobody walks by it. It's on the main street."

"Well, you'd find out if you'd actually bother to look around in the shop." Antioch grumbled, shooting Harry a glare. "Now, leave me for a little, I need to focus on this tea to get it right – and don't touch anything that doesn't feel right. I have a lot of stuff that I don't even remember exist, and not nearly all of it is safe."

Oo0oO

Right away, Harry noticed that most of the books were about stuff that he didn't even know existed. Mostly, they were what Harry figured to be really, really advanced kinds of magic; necromancy, blood magic, elemental manipulation, soul magic; the works. However, one section in particular attracted his attention – the Metamorphmagus'.

**_There are plot reasons for this, just FIY, before you click out of the window because of clichés.  
I didn't just add this in because I want Harry to be more powerful, or anything like that, which goes directly against what I'd set out to do in this; build a butterfly effect from Harry's crush on Hermione.  
Besides, in time – like, near fifth or sixth year, maybe – I'm planning on nerfing Harry's ability to control it a lot, so that it won't be overpowered wartime spying stupidity.  
Just wanted you all to know._**

"Like I figured." Harry jumped, turning around to see Antioch right behind him, holding two bright red cups. "Here you go, tea with two sugar cubes – let it sit for around a minute, then get rid of the bag. Otherwise the flavour will overpower you."

Harry nodded as he accepted the cup, softly blowing over the edge to cool it a little. "What did you figure, by the way?"

"Well, for one, anyone who can see this shop has some kind of special ability." Antioch explained. "It's one of the other things the runes around the shop take care of. You seem rather – I don't know how to put this logically – unfit for your body, so to speak. Rather like someone with gender dysphoria, though I doubt you'd actually go that far. A Metamorphmagus changes his or her body to whatever they like. My last customer was a Metamorphmagus girl, and the next time she came by, she had bright pink hair, saying she didn't know how to turn it back." He chuckled.

"That would explain my hair growing like crazy." Harry mumbled, staring at his long bangs from the corner of his eye. Antioch cleared his throat to get his attention.

"Anyway, you can take that book you were looking at earlier – it has a complicated name, but it's basically Metamorphmagus for beginners. I have a couple of advanced tomes around here, too, but you can come back for those once you're through that one."

"How much will it be?" Harry asked, bringing out his satchel of Galleons. Antioch waved it off.

"I still have access to the Peverell Family Vault. They don't ask and don't tell, and I keep the millions of accumulated Galleons stored within the bowels of Gringotts instead of moving them overseas to the Gnomes, or something similar." He grinned. "It's a win-win situation, really, and I can live off of interest well enough that I don't actually need or want to charge my customers. You've paid me enough by just keeping me company for a little while."

Harry blinked. "Well, that's depressing."

Oo0oO

Despite getting distracted from his initial goal, Harry did eventually succeed in finding presents for his friends. For Hermione, he had fancy set of winter accessories – gloves, a scarf, and a beanie – all made out of a deep purple wool and enchanted with permanent warming charms, which nearly had him in tears because of the price tag. Ron would get a Cleansweep 14, the newest in the line of Keeper brooms; the redhead had preached about becoming a Keeper for Gryffindor for several months already, after hearing that Wood was leaving at the end of the year, so he might as well be given a head start.

Ginny had been a difficult one. The point was, Harry didn't want her to get her hopes up again – because her crush was definitely still there, merely hidden under the surface – only to have them crushed later. But at the same time, he didn't want to give her 'just another gift', either. Eventually, Antioch had pointed him towards the Wizarding branch of Chanel, which sold its most famous brands in enchanted bottles, guaranteeing the complete destruction of bad odour and day-long use. Perhaps not quite as memorable as Hermione and Ron's gifts, but then again, he really didn't know her that well.

Neville was getting a plant. Despite how unimpressive that sounded compared to everything else, the plant in question had been some kind of exotic near-sentient Venus fly trap native to the Brazilian Jungle – or something, Harry really did _not_ know plants – and, as it was still in its infancy, it could be trained to not, you know, eat humans, which was always a plus in presents.

Oo0oO

The Three Broomsticks was absolutely packed with heat-seeking students. Neville had somehow managed to snag a large table, which could easily fit ten people, all for himself, and was looking quite pitiful when Harry arrived.

"'Sup, Nev."

Neville glanced up at him, and went back to staring into space. "Oh, hey, Harry."

"The rest isn't here yet, I suppose?"

"They're over at the bar, getting Butterbeer." Neville motioned towards Rosmerta, who was serving someone with familiar bushy hair. Ginny was standing next to Hermione, already holding a tray of snacks. Harry put his shopping bags under the table, and plopped down next to his friend.

"What's got you stuck in such a mood? And how did you claim this table, anyway?"

"I didn't. Hermione did." Neville shuddered slightly. "She's scary. And – well, over there." He nodded towards a dark corner of the room, where a Hufflepuff with blonde pigtails was trying to suck an older Ravenclaw's face off.

"Hannah Abbott, right?" Harry asked. "The Black Shrubbery girl. Didn't know you fancied her."

"Well, now you do." Neville grumped, staring down at the table. They remained in uncomfortable silence until Hermione and Ginny returned, each carrying a tray.

"Hey." Hermione sat down next to Harry, and kissed him softly. "I didn't know you'd arrived already."

"Well, now you do." Harry grumped in a horrible imitation of Neville, and despite himself, the pudgy Gryffindor couldn't help but grin. Hermione looked between them curiously, smiling bemusedly, but didn't say anything else, because Ron came walking in, holding a single, tiny shopping bag.

"That's not a lot." Ginny probed. "I hope you at least got something for Mum, you know how she gets when one of her 'babies' forgets about her."

"It's all shrunk, of course." Ron retorted as he plopped down next to his sister. "How else were you planning on sending Errol around with presents? He isn't particularly strong, you know." Hermione started handing out the Butterbeers, and raised her own glass.

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" The others grinned, and raised their own glasses.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Well, isn't this a jolly gathering." The group turned around in surprise, and found Minister Fudge, of all people, standing behind Harry in his usual green bowler hat, smiling. "Are the other seats taken? I have a meeting here shortly, you see, and the rest of the tables are all taken. As long as it's alright with you, of course."

"Er – sure, Minister!" Hermione answered, blinking. "We're not expecting anyone else, are we, Harry?"

"Nope." Harry shook his head calmly. "Take a seat, Minister."

The Minister chuckled. "I told you in our last meeting to call me Cornelius, Harry. Much more comfortable." He sat down easily, and, as everyone else stared at Harry in surprise, beamed at the approaching Rosmerta. "Madam Rosmerta, how are you? I assume you're aware of my meeting?"

"Of course, Minister." Rosmerta smiled disarmingly, and Hermione walloped Ron over the head when she found him staring open-mouthed at the bartender's loosened blouse. "What will you have?"

"I'll take a Gillywater, thank you." Minister Fudge nodded, before blinking at something behind Harry. "Oh, if you wait a minute, you'll be able to take the orders from the rest of my table, too. Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick."

Harry froze, eyes widening as he heard Professor McGonagall's voice from directly behind him. "Good afternoon, Minister. You seem to be harbouring a misplaced student?"

She posed it as a question, and even as Harry and Hermione exchanged panicking glances, Minister Fudge blinked. "Well, the only one at this table who I can see being misplaced in any way is myself, and I'm not a student anymore."

Professor McGonagall moved past Harry, and sat down next to the Minister, staring at Harry from behind her glasses in a soul-chilling gaze. The Professor was wearing a fancy fur coat, strangely reminding Harry of Cruella De Vil. Professor Flitwick, wearing his usual robes, jumped up on the seat next to her. "Oh let him be, Minerva." The diminutive Professor chirped, grinning widely. "It's Christmas! Besides, you can't stop a determined boy from going on his first date with his new girlfriend."

Flitwick winked at Harry, who smiled back weakly. Hermione blushed brightly, hiding her face behind her bottle of Butterbeer, and their friends sniggered at her. Professor McGonagall considered them for several seconds before letting up on her glare, and she nodded. "I suppose, yes. But don't think that you're getting off scot free, Mr. Potter. We'll have a chat with Dumbledore when we get back, about how you keep sneaking out."

"If I may," Minister Fudge interrupted, "Why exactly does Harry need to keep sneaking out? I do believe I remember seeing something in the Quibbler on how, despite having a signed permission slip, he was denied visiting rights to the village." Professor McGonagall glared at Fudge, and absently, Harry wondered how on earth the Quibbler had learnt about that – or what the Quibbler was, to begin with.

"You know as well as I do that it's not save for Mr. Potter to be out, especially since the incident at Halloween –"

"So take away his rights, you say?" Minister Fudge retorted, showing for once how he got into the Minister's office. "Very well. Let's confiscate his wand, bind his magic, and throw him into Azkaban while we're at it. Maybe that'll keep him safe."

Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Neville were staring at him in bafflement, utterly surprised at how the legendary incompetent Fudge was suddenly a decent politician as Professor McGonagall spluttered. "But – no, I wasn't saying that at all! All I'm saying is that we should keep him safe –"

"– at all costs." Professor Flitwick finished. "Minerva, I hate to do this, but remember when the Basilisk got released the first time around? You were still apprenticed to Albus back then." The rest of the café, who were by now all listening in unabashedly, blinked in surprise at the new information. "To keep the students safe, you were prepared to lock a student in Azkaban –"

"You're taking it completely out of context, Filius." Professor McGonagall retorted. "Back then, all of us, even Albus, believed that Rubeus –"

"The point is, Minerva," Flitwick interrupted, "there comes a point where protecting the students becomes actually putting them in danger. What if Mr. Potter gets caught by Black sneaking into Hogsmeade? Having him in one of the many coaches would be much safer, as everyone would immediately notice something happening, and even Black wouldn't survive against all of the teachers at once."

McGonagall glanced around, and stood up promptly. "Let's continue this in the Hog's Head. This is getting a bit too public for me."

Professor Flitwick looked around and nodded. "Agreed. Are you coming, Minister?"

"Yes, I suppose." The Minister stood up, and tipped his hat at Harry. "Goodbye, Harry. It was nice seeing you again, however short it was."

Harry smiled a little, grateful that the Minister actually cared enough to stick up for him. "Goodbye, Mini– er, Cornelius."

As soon as the Minister stepped out of the Three Broomsticks and closed the door behind him, the entire café erupted into noise, loudly chattering over what just transpired. Harry's friends stared at him. "What was that all about?" Ron asked, munching on a handful of walnuts. "'Cause I don't think that everyone gets to call the Minister by his first name, national celebrity or not."

Harry sighed.

* * *

**_Antioch's appearance might seem incredibly random, right now, and something completely ridiculous I came up with just to make Harry a Metamorphmagus._**

**_…_****_You'd be right, in part, in thinking that. BUT NOT. Psyche!_**

**_He did start out as that, yes, back in the initial draft the first time I was uploading, back when this fic was still known as Taking Things Seriously – and dear lord, it was barely a year ago, but it seems like such a long time now! – but now he's got an actual plot purpose much later on. You'll see._**

**_For now, he's nothing more than 'that one uncle', the one that's completely insane and useless except when you really need him. Obviously he's not insane or useless, but you know where I'm going with this, right?_**

**_Well, even if you don't, there you go. Explanations. Hope that satisfied you._**

**_-The Baron_**


	10. Part 2 - Episode 6

.

**Part 2: Illicit Dairy Produce**

**Episode VI**

Only a few weeks later, after the train had departed and Harry was left by himself in his dorm, the usual magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up all around Hogwarts, despite the fact that hardly any of the students remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious lights shone from inside every suit of armour, and the Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, and by Christmas Eve, it had grown so strong that Harry could smell it all the way from Hagrid's hut.

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by an obnoxiously loud hoot from Hedwig, which would have woken up even Ron, had he not gone home for the holidays. Harry had asked if he could join either the Weasleys or the Grangers, but Hermione's father was supposedly highly overprotective and needed some time to get used to the idea of his daughter dating someone, so as to not beat him to a pulp for corrupting his princess the moment Harry stepped through the door, while the Weasleys had already invited Lee and Oliver, and didn't have any sleeping spots left, unless Harry wanted to camp out in the garden, which, mid-winter, didn't seem like such a good idea.

Harry reached for his glasses and put them on, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared overnight.

"Hoot, hoot!" Hedwig was perched next to a large, bright red box, and seemed anxious for him to open it. When he removed the green ribbon, the sides fell open to reveal a small mountain of – bacon? Harry looked at the tag.

_For Hedwig (and her human)_ it said, written in Arthur's handwriting. Harry grinned, shook his head fondly, and turned to his own presents as his owl happily started munching away.

For starters, Harry had gotten another sweater. Molly had sent him a scarlet jumper with the Gryffindor lion knitted on the front, together with a dozen home-made mince pies, some Christmas cake, and a box of chocolate-covered nuts and raisins. Over the top, just like always, but honestly, Harry didn't mind in the least.

Aside from that, Harry got a miniature foe-glass from Ron (_Miniature Sneako-thingy, miniature foe glass – what else could a paranoid man want?_), a small booklet from Lupin (_This teaches you the fundamental basics of the Patronus Charm. Read and practice it before our first lesson._), and a framed wizarding photograph from Hermione that had the both of them in it, on the lawn near the Black Lake; sometimes kissing, but often just holding each other. It had been taken by Colin Creevey once, and Hermione had threatened to castrate him for the picture. Needless to say, he'd never tried to take a photo with her in it since. _To remind you of me_ was written on the back of it.

Hagrid had, surprisingly enough, gotten him a violin (_If nothing else, _it said in Hagrid's usual messy scrawl_, it looks good hanging from the wall._). Despite what Hagrid might have thought, Harry did _not_ have deft hands, and he'd more likely snap a string before he made the barest of noises, so yes, it was more than likely going to become a fancy wall ornament over anything else. Neville, meanwhile, had gifted an incredibly fancy peacock-feather quill, which he said was spelled to hold an endless amount of ink, while Ginny had given him a pair of gloves (_Specifically made for polishing brooms – and not like that, prat. For when you get a different broom_).

As he moved the mountain of wrapping paper aside, however, he saw that a long, thin package still remained, lying underneath.

"What's this?"

Curiously, Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread. "I don't believe it." He muttered to himself as he touched the twigs on the end softly.

It was a Firebolt, identical to the broom that had been on display in Quality Quidditch Supplies' window, only this one wasn't a prop. Its silver handle shined in the soft morning light as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating, and let go; it hung in mid-air, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the registration number at the top of the handle – _00001_, it read, engraved in actual gold – down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

He sorted through the remaining wrappings for a card, looking for some kind of handwriting that would help Harry find the sender – but came up with nothing. Who on earth would spend that much on him? A normal Firebolt was one thing, but the first ten that came off the production line were priced even higher than the normal ones, which were already 'price on demand'.

Then, after further admiring the steadily floating broom, Harry decided to go for a fly; it had been extremely long since he'd been on a halfway decent broom, after all.

Oo0oO

Harry only came back down for breakfast because the smells were too powerful to ignore. The Nimbus, as close to his heart as it was, didn't hold a candle to the speedy death trap that was the Firebolt.

One thing was for sure: it wasn't a broom for amateurs. Even Harry, who had been flying at neck-breaking speeds near daily for two-and-a-half years, had problems controlling it. If you ignored the possibility of death by faceplant, however, it was exhilarating, and he felt disappointed to be back on the ground.

The house tables had been moved against the walls, and a single table, set for ten, stood in the middle of the room. All of the Heads of Houses were there, along with Dumbledore and Filch, who had taken off his usual mouldy brown coat and was wearing a very old and just-as-mouldy tailcoat. There were only three other students: two first-years – one from Ravenclaw and one from Gryffindor – who were staring at Dumbledore with wide eyes, surprised to see him act so normal, and an unknown Slytherin who seemed vaguely familiar and was hiding his face behind a book.

When Harry walked in after putting his Firebolt back in his room, Dumbledore smiled from the head of the table, eyes twinkling like Christmas lights. "Welcome, my boy! And merry Christmas! Sit down, sit down, breakfast's only just been served."

Gratefully, Harry plopped down between the two firsties, who were looking even more nervous than before. "Hullo." He greeted. "Merry Christmas, everyone."

"Crackers!" Dumbledore said enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver one to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Harry, remembering Neville's boggart, grinned; Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat towards Dumbledore, who swapped it with his wizard's hat at once.

"Tuck in!" he advised the table, beaming around.

Harry grinned and took two of the crackers, holding them out to the first-years, who took the other ends unsurely and tugged at the same time – with another loud bang, they flew apart and revealed four more vulture headpieces, two from each.

He peered suspiciously at Dumbledore, who tried – and failed – to look innocent. Just as innocently, as he took one of them and held it out to Snape, who glared hotly. "You don't seem to have one, sir." Harry reminded helpfully. "We have too many – would you like one of ours?" The old bat sneered, but snatched it out of Harry's hand anyways, not to put it on his head, but to snatch McGonagall's Witches' hat from her head and put in on her instead.

Everyone gaped, and Dumbledore, unruffled as ever, chuckled fondly. Professor McGonagall fumed silently, and snatched her – clearly feminine – hat back, only to force it onto Snape, who immediately tried to take it off, but found that he couldn't. "Calm down, children." The Headmaster, who was holding his wand, reprimanded sternly, though his eyes were smiling. "Unless you're willing to sacrifice a ring of hair, your hats are glued to your head. Much better than taking House points, I think."

Professor Flitwick giggled, nearly falling off his chair; Sprout laughed loudly, the Gryffindor firstie grinned mischievously, and even the Slytherin cracked a slight smile. The Ravenclaw first-year clearly didn't know what to think, however, and was watching wide-eyed as Snape and McGonagall glared at Dumbledore. "We're not students anymore, Albus!" Professor McGonagall hissed. "Undo this –"

"Well, you certainly seem to behave like them." The Headmaster smiled serenely, stowing away his wand. "And don't even try to remove the sticking charm, it's a special version that can only be undone by the caster." The Headmaster smiled. "Filius taught it to me last summer – I didn't think I'd actually get to use it, though."

McGonagall and Snape glared at Flitwick instead, who quickly put on his own hat, disappearing entirely within its brim. Only his mouth was still visible. "I'm not here!" He claimed, before reaching out to the table. "Can someone pass me a sandwich? I can't see the bowl." Professor Sprout handed one over, and Filius smiled, his head still covered by the hat. "Ah, thank you, Pomona."

It was at that point that the doors to the Great Hall opened, and an unfamiliar woman came stumbling through; Harry recognized her from Ron's description, however. Massive fuzzy hair, wide, nothing-at-all-seeing eyes covered by glasses the size of her face, and a green dress that made your head hurt from just looking at it – that could be none other than Professor Trelawney.

"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" Dumbledore said, standing up.

"I have been crystal-gazing, Headmaster," said the Divine Fraud in her misty, faraway voice, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary morning meal and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness…"

"Certainly, certainly," said Dumbledore, his twinkle full-blast. "Let me draw you up a chair –"

And he did indeed draw a chair in mid-air with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Snape and McGonagall, who were still glaring at one another. "Thank you, Headmaster." She sat down.

"Where is Professor Lupin?" Harry asked suddenly. He'd seen the man around already, even though it was Christmas, together with – "And Madam Hooch?"

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," Dumbledore said, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day. Rolanda is with him, keeping him company."

Harry frowned, thinking that the man was sick awfully often, but let the matter drop.

The rest of the meal was spent talking to the firsties, Derek Falkner and Roxanne Irvine, who both loosened up over time, though not to the point where they actually became comfortable enough to drop the Oh-Merlin-I'm-speaking-to-a-celebrity-he'll-kill-me-if-I-say-something-wrong speak.

Derek, a dark-haired boy with wide, worshipping blue eyes Harry was really, really uncomfortable seeing on a boy came from a family of American Purebloods who were apparently famous accountants, for people who didn't want their gold stored with Goblins or didn't trust them to keep their bookkeeping strictly legal.

Roxanne, meanwhile, was pretty much the exact opposite. An auburn-haired Muggleborn, she lived somewhere in eastern Crawley with her mother, an unemployed single mother who'd resorted to becoming a street artist to keep her and her daughter fed. With a dead father and a mother that was almost always away, she'd grown up largely independently, with only a single friend until said friend went to a boarding school – not Hogwarts, obviously, but some French school she'd never heard of called Beauxbatons.

When Harry was finally done eating and excused himself from the table, Professor McGonagall stood up along with him. "Mr. Potter, could you please follow me? I would like to speak with you." By now, Dumbledore had undone the sticking charm, and the hats had all been returned to their rightful owners.

"Erm – sure, Professor." Harry answered, surprised. "In your office? That's a little far away."

"We can use one of the classrooms." McGonagall answered, leading the way out of the doors. They went down to the right of the Great Hall, and entered the first door. The room was empty, aside from a single desk, and three chairs. "The old parent conference room, when that was still a mandatory thing. Sit down, Mr. Potter."

Harry did as ordered, and watched as his Transfiguration professor walked around the desk, and took a seat on the other side. She regarded him silently for a few seconds, before sighing. "I… wish to apologize for not allowing you to go to Hogsmeade." She said. "I made up that your slip wasn't viable, trying to keep you safe. That backfired rather badly, as you found out on Halloween." Harry blinked.

"So, in reality, I could've evaded Black entirely?"

Professor McGonagall nodded, sighing. "Yes. If you had stuck with the stage coaches, you would never have strayed from your friends, and I know Miss Granger well enough that she wouldn't have gone to the Shrieking Shack on Halloween – which, by the way, you should have known as well."

"Yes, but –" Harry scratched the back of his head sheepishly, "I thought that they might have split up. Ron could go to the Shrieking Shack, while 'Mione would've spent hours in a bookstore." He chuckled briefly, before falling silent. After a small moment, he spoke up again. "You know what, Professor? I'm glad things went the way they did. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known what a monster Black really was."

The Deputy Headmistress smiled. "Thank you, Harry. Thank you for saying that. But I'm sure that Black isn't really a monster; at most, everyone is a mutant, made to be that way by the people and environment around them."

"Well, forgive me for doubting that, Professor." Harry replied, frowning. "He did, after all, kill my parents. But may I be excused now?"

She nodded, even though she didn't seem happy about the way he brushed her off. Harry didn't really care, at the moment. It wasn't until he said it, plain as day, that it fully came to him how close he had been to death that Halloween; Black had been Voldemort's right hand, a title which didn't come from being a particularly decent librarian. He'd been one of the best duellers in the war, and had, on more than one occasion, battled Bellatrix Lestrange to a standstill; Harry suspected that the only reason he hadn't killed her was because they were secretly friends, BFFs even.

The question was – why hadn't Black immediately cast a Killing Curse, or some other deadly Dark Magic? Azkaban's influence was one answer, but the Prophet had quoted several of Azkaban's guards, who all claimed that he had been quite lucid, even through the Dementors' aura. Not that the Prophet was all that reliable, but it had to hold at least some standard of truth, right?

With a polite nod to Professor McGonagall, Harry stood up and left the small office, thoughts and theories slowly brewing in the back of his mind.


	11. Christmas Interlude

.

**First Interlude**

**Christmas morning**

Christmas, Ron found, was awesome. There was lots of food, and friends coming over to eat lots of food, and parties with lots of food, and presents were opened while eating lots of food, and just lots of food in general.

The evening before, the Weasleys had had a small family dinner, with only them and the Lovegoods from next door, simply because they had nobody else to eat with, and Ron's mother couldn't stand leaving them out. Xenophile, or whatever, was rather weird, and his daughter was the same. Really, the only difference between them was that Xenophile's daughter didn't look like Trelawney's husband, and more like a normal person – if that normal person was wearing radish earrings and a necklace of Butterbeer caps, that is. But that was food, and food was good, so Luna was good in Ron's book.

Currently, Ron was happily munching away on bacon at the living room table, dreaming about food, and presents, and food, and presents, and food, and presents, and –

BANG! A loud explosion rocked Ron from his thoughts, and he looked up, still munching bacon, to see Fred and George storming down the stairs, laughing madly. Seconds later, a black-faced Percy followed after them, roaring angrily. "COME BACK HERE!" He shouted, following them out the back door. "HOW DARE YOU PUT A BOMB IN MY ROOM! IF I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, YOU'RE DEAD!"

Ron blinked, before shrugging and munching some more bacon, completely ignoring the fiasco. It was right then that Arthur came down the stairs, still clad in his sleeping robe. "Morning!" He said jovially. "Would you happen to know where your brothers went? Molly is looking for them."

Wordlessly, Ron pointed to the back door, which was left open by Percy. Arthur peered into the light, and spotted vague shapes running around after one another. "They're outside, Molly!" Arthur called out at the stairs. "Playing a little game of tag! Nothing to worry about!"

"Oh thank goodness." Molly came down the aforementioned stairs, huffing angrily. "First they get angry, and then they start playing games! It's like they don't even remember breakfast! Has Bill woken up yet?" She asked Arthur, who was by now sitting at the table as well, reading the paper while drinking a cup of coffee.

"I don't know, but you should let the boy sleep. He's just apparated all the way over from Egypt, he's bound to be tired." He took a sip of coffee. "Besides, Ginny should wake up soon, and you know how she gets."

Molly sighed tiredly, making her way over to the stove. "I suppose I'd better get cooking, then." On the way there, she paused to plant a kiss on the top of Ron's head, who wiped it off immediately, scowling. "Merry Christmas, Ronald."

"Merry Christmas, mum." He mumbled around a mouthful of egg, gulping it down with a bit of water. "Can I have some more bacon?"

Oo0oO

Christmas, Ginny found, was rather chaotic, but in a good way. Ron ate more, Fred and George blew up more, Percy annoyed more, and Charlie and Bill actually came home for once. Of course, after Apparating such a distance, they were usually asleep for an entire day, but they were still there, which was what counted.

Of course, there were also the presents, which were often fun, but rarely anything of substance. Harry always got them something amazing, and Neville was kind enough to send the family as a whole something, but the individual presents from Molly and Arthur were rarely worth anything. Ginny didn't blame them, definitely not, but she would have liked something more than make-up for the one yearly holiday they celebrated.

On the other hand, it was better than socks, and the colours certainly weren't ugly so Ginny had to give her parents at least credit for trying. "Merry Christmas, Mum, Dad." She smiled at them, putting the make-up aside.

"Merry Christmas, Ginny."

Oo0oO

Christmas, Hermione found, was her favourite time of year – especially if she stayed at Hogwarts, but after doing that for two years in a row, it was time to spend one with her family. Though the elder Grangers thought of the present-gifting as nothing more than a tool used by companies to sell more, and always decorated the house with the pre-Coca Cola Santa statues, usually featuring him as a tall, gaunt man, reminiscent of The Lord of the Rings' Ents, they still celebrated Christmas with a few, small gifts, and a massive dinner, where the entire family was brought together at their huge dining table and spent hours eating an incredibly fancy four-course meal.

The bulk of Hermione's gifts, however, came from her friends each year. Harry usually got her something large and pricey, even though she kept insisting that he shouldn't, and Ron always bought something Muggle that was either insensitive or discriminating, mostly because he and his family didn't know what it was. But he meant well, so Hermione didn't mind.

Still clad in her at-home pyjamas – really cute pale blue ones Lavender would undoubtedly try to steal for herself, and Hermione really didn't want the bother of having to defend her own clothing from fashion-mongering claws – she made the way down the stairs, through their large entrance hall, and into the living room, where a fire was already being tended to by the Grangers' maid, Allison.

"Good morning, Miss Granger." She greeted, glancing up from her crouched position. "And Merry Christmas! Should I start preparing your breakfast?"

"Merry Christmas, but no thank you, Allison. I'll wait until Mum and Dad wake up." Hermione smiled faintly, and plopped down on the couch, looking out of the window next to it. Greg, their gardener, was already tending to the flowers, and waved merrily when he saw her peeking out of the window.

Though it was nice living in such a big house – some might even describe it as a villa, though she certainly wouldn't go that far – Hermione found herself wanting back their old, cosier home, before her parents' business started blooming and they'd moved. They'd lived in a normal house back then, with purple wallpaper that had begun to flake, and a shower that didn't quite give the correct temperature but was still good enough to not warrant a replacement, and even though it hadn't been quite as spacious, it certainly wasn't as empty as the cold marble felt at times, when the elder Grangers hadn't woken up yet. (Plus, she didn't know what Harry, let alone Ron, would think if they saw her parents' wealth…)

"Good morning, Hermione, Allison." Dan entered the room, shaking Hermione out of her thoughts. Her father had a massive beard, which he trimmed himself, but a completely clean-shaven head, which Hermione suspected was polished for half an hour every morning – that was the only explanation for the shine it had.

Emma entered right behind him, leaving the door open. She had the same hair as Hermione, only with greyish blue eyes, instead of Hermione and Dan's brown. Emma smiled as well, but stayed silent.

Allison smiled, standing up. "Good morning, Sir, Madam! And Merry Christmas!" Hermione smiled faintly, but didn't speak up. "I'll get started on breakfast." Allison chirped, bowing out of the room, and shutting the door behind her.

Hermione's parents soon sat down on either side of her, and after a few seconds of awkward silence – they'd never sat like this before, not since the move, and it felt foreign and rather weird – Emma chose to speak. "We, er, thought it might be a – no, er – figured that it would be a good idea to get you this, with that serial killer stalking around." She stumbled, handing a package to Hermione. "I was told it had some protective spell on it – no clue what, though."

"Go ahead, open it." Dan prodded, and Hermione glanced from the both of them down to the package. It was rather small, and didn't weigh much.

_Protective socks?_ She thought unenthusiastically, unwrapping the paper – and nearly dropping the gift in shock.

Her parents had actually gotten her something that she could appreciate, instead of something they thought was necessary (like the way-over-the-top bejewelled toothbrush she got the year before). It was a small pendant, rather simple, but it meant something, unlike the previous years. The pendant sprung open with a soft click, revealing a rather old picture, taken when Hermione was still in kindergarten, with her and her parents laughing happily. The other side was empty.

"Do you like it?" Emma asked tentatively, when her daughter didn't say anything for a little while. "We left one open, so you can take a picture with your friends and put it in there. If you don't like it, we can –"

Suddenly, Hermione turned around and hugged her mother tightly. "Thank you." She whispered, blinking back tears. "Thank you so much."

Emma smiled, sounding relieved as she hugged her daughter back. "Merry Christmas, Hermione."

"Merry Christmas, Mum, Dad."

Oo0oO

Christmas, Neville found, was fun. At least, the first day of it. On the second day, he and his Grandmother always went to see his parents, so that wasn't a fun day, but the first certainly was.

For one, Augusta and Algie were actually nice for a day. Augusta didn't constantly tell him what a failure he was, Algie didn't try to drop him out of any windows to see if his magic had grown any stronger, Augusta didn't keep Neville's breakfast from him to teach him a lesson (which was, incidentally, why Neville was pudgy*), Algie didn't put him in with the poisonous plants to see if he could grow resistant to the poison, only to find out that he couldn't and had to bring Neville to the hospital…

Not exactly the greatest set of caretakers, were they? The only reason Neville still came home every December was because Augusta would kill him if he didn't, not because he wanted to go home. That said, he did get presents, so it wasn't all fire and brimstone, but he still would've preferred to stay at Hogwarts, with Harry and whoever else decided to stay that year.

"Merry Christmas, Neville." Augusta said as she, still clad in her nightgown, moved to kiss Neville's forehead.

Neville sighed. "Merry Christmas, grandmother."

Oo0oO

Christmas, Luna found, was curious. More specifically, the way people behaved during Christmas was interesting. To Luna and her father, December 25th was just like any other day, merely one she spent at home instead of at Hogwarts. However, other people all made a fuss about it, as if it was some major celebration that would be horrifying if it were forgotten.

Just the day before, the Weasley family from next door had invited them over for a Christmas Dinner, purely because it was Christmas. Luna and her father had, of course, accepted, thinking that it would have been quite rude to dismiss them. It had been quite amicable, and the Lovegoods had been able to appreciate it simply as a family inviting them over for dinner, instead of the major thing the Weasleys had made it out to be.

So no, the Lovegoods didn't give each other presents. They didn't have a Christmas tree, didn't have a lavish breakfast, and certainly didn't celebrate Christmas. That didn't mean that they weren't happy, though.

"Merry today, honeypop." Xenophilius greeted, smiling.

"Merry today, daddy!"

Oo0oO

Christmas, Remus found, was a joyous occasion. Usually. When he wasn't in the hospital wing, recovering from a full moon.

When he was young, before Greyback decided to get back at his parents by fucking up his life, he used to celebrate Christmas with his parents, who doted on him, spoiling him with tons of expensive gifts. The massive Christmas tree that was in their living room, which had an incredibly high ceiling, providing space for a tree the size that decorates squares and shopping malls, used to light up with hundreds upon hundreds of lights, blinking with every single colour known to mankind. Black and gold balls decorated the tree, top to bottom, with a beautiful golden star with black stripes being stuck on top.

Of course, this dreamy Christmas wasn't supposed to last forever, and, when Remus was six, he was bitten by Greyback, in response to some derogatory comment his father, Lyall, made about Werewolves in a public conference. This was on Christmas Eve.

Lyall and Remus' mother, Hope, had brought him to various healers in the hopes of curing him of his recently acquired Lycanthropy, all in vain. This had put an immense damper on Christmas, and he'd never really celebrated it himself again, merely joining James, Peter and Black whenever they staged a party. This was, of course, now impossible, but –

Remus was shaken out of his thoughts by a familiar woman, who walked over to him with a tray of soup. "Here you are," She said, putting it down on the nightstand and sitting down on his bed. "Can you hold the spoon without dropping it? I don't know how good your hand-eye coordination is right now, so…" Remus shrugged painfully, sticking out his hand.

"Here, give me the spoon. I'll just try it." She nodded, and folded a napkin over his chest.

"There you go, so you don't ruin your shirt if you drop it." She said, smiling, before she handed the spoon, already loaded with a bit of soup, to Remus. He accepted it and, holding it steady, brought it over to his mouth – only for the spoon to bump against his chin, and splash the contents over his mouth, instead of into it.

His companion giggled. "Here. Let me clean it up." Remus expected her to grab the napkin and wipe it off, but instead, she leaned forward and kissed him, making him blink in surprise. Then, he smiled fondly, and kissed back.

"Would that happen to have been my Christmas present?" Remus asked then, after the kiss was done, staring into her eyes. She chuckled.

"I suppose it was. Merry Christmas, Remus."

"Merry Christmas, love."

Oo0oO

Christmas, Sirius found, wasn't all that. Unless it was celebrated with the Potters, who were now either dead as a doornail or hated him with all their being.

In the 'noble' house of Black, Christmas wasn't celebrated as much as with, for example, the Potters, or just about any English Muggle family (as far as he knew, at least; he couldn't exactly claim to be well-versed in Muggle behaviour. But that was beside the point). The family had one dinner – and a small one at that, without much conversation – on Christmas Eve, spent a silent evening in front of the hearth, mostly keeping to themselves, and then went to bed. There was no room for presents, no room for merriment, no room for friendliness; just cold, dark silence, perhaps rather fitting for a family named Black.

Sirius, however, preferred everything more boisterous. A massive Christmas tree, non-existent in the Black household, should prevent everyone from going anywhere, simply because of its size. It should be decorated with so many lights, balls, and other decorations that the needles wouldn't even be visible anymore. There should be hundreds of thousands of presents, all, of course, for himself – and maybe one or two for James, Lily, and Remus, so they wouldn't feel left out – and there should be really horrible Christmas music, Muggle if at all possible, turned up to max volume, blaring out of speakers all across the mansion.

That was, mainly, why Christmas wasn't all that. Because such a thing was impossible right now, and all Sirius had was a half-dead oak, a rather tasty squirrel, and a not-quite-yet rotting Basilisk for company.

"Merry Christmas, me."

Oo0oO

Christmas, Albus found, was quite the merry occasion.

The children who hadn't left for the holidays were having fun outside, and Albus could spot Harry and another small figure running around in the snow, laughing happily. It was good to see young Harry's playful side for once, too, since he was much too serious most of the time. Really, the boy reminded him of himself sometimes, incredibly gifted yet too out of contact with the Magical World to really do something with it.

Squinting, Albus smiled. It seemed that Harry had become friends with young Roxanne, too. They were going to be good friends, and perhaps they'd even form a brother-sister bond, he could already tell.

The other students – Derek and Theodore, if Albus recalled correctly – were sitting a little ways away from the two, each reading their own book. The young Ravenclaw was saying something to the Slytherin, who seemed to be ignoring him and the other children completely, instead focusing on his book. Derek shrugged, and joined Harry and Roxanne in their playing. Albus smiled as he spotted Theodore looking wistfully at the playing children, before shaking himself and turning back to his book with a frown. It seemed that the Slytherin didn't want other people to know that he was actually a big softie.

Yes, Albus had impeccable, eagle-grade eye-sight. What of it? It wasn't like his glasses had a zooming spell on them. Not at all. What on earth gave you that idea?

The other teachers were each doing their own things, spread throughout the castle. Minerva and Severus were likely grading their students' work, while Filius was off in the Forest with Rubeus, helping the half-giant with his Thestral herd. Sybill was undoubtedly in her tower, silently sitting in a trance, in the hopes of making another prophecy. It was probably all in vain, however. Hardly any seers made more than a single true prophecy in a few decades. That didn't matter to Sybill, however, and she simply kept going, fruitlessly hoping to become one of the few to do it.

Albus sighed, and then smiled. He knew that she was happy, however. Just like he knew that Severus was happy teaching, even though he didn't show it, and Minerva liked grading homework, and ordering people around. Everyone was happy at Hogwarts, and that was what made Albus happy.

Now, if only he could remember where he left his Lemon Drops, everything would be right in the world. Except maybe Black, and the various wars raging on in Africa and South America, and the American Magical government descending into anarchy, and the rising Dark Lord in Iraq, and Grindelwald supposedly coming up with another plot to escape from Numengard – but it was Christmas, so he wouldn't spare any thoughts to that. Not right then.

"Merry Christmas, Aberforth, Ariana."

* * *

***Several studies have shown that people who skip breakfast put on weight. Now, I should add that there are several others that say that it doesn't make a difference, and a couple that say you put on more weight by eating breakfast, but I'm just going with the popular one here.**

**_Aww, Sirius is so sad. At least Remus finally got something non-paedophilic going, and I don't think that any of you were expecting that, were you? Over the coming Episodes, I'm going to be dropping a few hints, so if, once I officially reveal who she is, you're not surprised, then props to you! *thumbs up*_**

**_-The Baron_**


	12. Part 3 - Episode 1

.

**Part 3: A Cup of Coffee**

**Episode I**

_"__Just because you don't understand something doesn't mean that it's nonsense."  
-Lemony Snicket, The Slippery Slope_

The rest of the school returned a few days after New Year's Eve, and Harry was glad. Sure, Roxanne was fun to talk to – especially after she'd loosened up around him – and the other students were far from unpleasant company, but he couldn't exactly snog them, could he?

Hermione immediately ran over to him when she saw him waiting at the front doors, leaning against the wall. As soon as she got there, Hermione threw her arms around a surprised Harry's neck – absently, he noted she was wearing his gift – and kissed him roughly. Harry smiled against her lips, pulling her as close as he could without suffocating her – Hermione's hands started treading through his hair, and one of his hands dropped below her back to her butt –

Wolf-whistles and applause from the peanut gallery gave Harry enough strength to pull back, and throw a glare their way, before he turned back to Hermione, who was smiling happily. "I've missed you! And –" She reached up to give him another, albeit much shorter kiss. "That was for the gift. I love these! Where did you get them?"

Harry shrugged, smiling. "From Hogsmeade. The fanciest model they had. It cost quite a bit, but you're worth it."

"Awww!" A voice cooed from their right. "How cute! Little Hare-bear is all grown up now!" Roxanne was walking over, wearing a ridiculously thick coat that could've hidden a house and wiping away an imaginary tear with her pinkie finger. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, and Hermione turned to raise an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, you don't need to worry about your boyfriend." Roxanne smiled, hugging Hermione tightly. "I'm Roxanne Irvine. Nice to meet you."

"Er – Hermione Granger." Hermione shot a confused glance at her boyfriend as she hugged the first-year back. "You've, ah – adopted Harry, then?"

"Well, I suppose you could say that." Roxanne grinned, stepping back from Hermione. "But I was thinking more along the lines of that Harry should be more afraid for you than you for him. You're cute." She announced, totally shameless as Hermione blushed brightly.

"She's a lesbian." Harry added unnecessarily. It was baffling, how much Roxanne had changed from the timid firstie a few weeks earlier, but there was a reason why love at first sight was completely unrealistic.

"I guessed." Hermione replied dryly.

"Where's Ron?" Harry quickly changed the subject, and Roxanne smirked. "Or Neville and Ginny, for that matter."

"Ron's probably in the Great Hall already, banging the cutlery for people to sit down. He sped off as soon as we stepped out of the carriage." Hermione rolled her eyes in fond exasperation. "Ginny said she was going to sit with some of her other friends on the train, so she's probably in the Great Hall already as well, and we couldn't find Neville on the train. Knowing him, Trevor escaped, and Neville got lost trying to find him."

Harry chuckled. "Very well then. Shall we?" With a smile, Hermione accepted his arm, and together they followed Roxanne into the Hall, leaving the disappointed peanut gallery behind.

Like Hermione had predicted, Ron was already sitting at the Gryffindor table, urging people into sitting so they could finally start eating. Ginny was trying in vain to get her brother to stop, while Neville just sat there, looking lost, clearly not knowing whether to help out Ron, or aid Ginny and take away the loud idiot's knife and fork before he stabbed himself. Harry, Hermione, and Roxanne's arrival fixed that, however, and all thoughts about food went out of the window much, much faster then they'd came as he was suddenly trying and failing to save his innocent little sister from Roxanne's near-unnaturally lecherous behaviour.

Harry didn't think Ginny stopped blushing one moment for the entire night.

Neville had thanked him profusely for his present, saying that they were some of the rarest plants in existence – Harry hadn't known, really, and for all he knew they'd been as common as birch; he just figured that they looked interesting – while Ginny admitted that she'd been a little miffed with hers until she'd looked at the label. Ron, ears burning, was ready to give his back; however, Harry straight up told him that he'd burned the receipt, so he was either going to have to dump his new broom in a forgotten alley somewhere and burn it down or use it. Needless to say, he chose the latter.

Oo0oO

"So you flew. On a broom. Given to you by an anonymous sender. Without someone there to catch you should you have fallen."

They were in the Common Room, just after dinner; Harry had just shown Hermione, Ron, Neville, and the Quidditch team his Firebolt, and while they were fawning over it, Hermione decided to lay into Harry.

"Er – yes?" Harry tried. Wrong answer.

"Did you even think of the possibility that it was sent by – oh, I don't know – someone who wanted to get you killed? Like Black, maybe?"

Harry paled. "No – I –"

Hermione sighed, sitting down next to him on the loveseat and snuggling into his neck. "Next year, you're coming with me, no matter what you or my parents say. You'll just get yourself killed otherwise."

Her boyfriend went completely white; he'd heard storied of overprotective fathers from their resident ladies-man, Seamus, and Hermione herself had said that her father was an extreme case. "But –"

"No buts, or no boyfriend privileges."

Harry grumbled but kept silent.

"Good boyfriend."

A few feet to the side, Roxanne looked up from her homework, grinning, and made a sharp noise that was a surprisingly accurate imitation of a whip. Harry glared.

Oo0oO

Classes started again the next day. Though the last thing anyone really felt like doing was going out onto the cold, hard grounds, trying to stuff lettuce down some Flobberworms' throats – it was totally unlike Hagrid to afflict them with such a thing, but, like he said, if you can't keep a Flobberworm alive, you certainly won't be able to keep a Griffin alive – they spent a surprisingly fun lesson messing with Fire Crabs, six-legged turtles that farted fire and were apparently wanted all over the world for their bejewelled shells for use as cauldrons of all things. They were, for an endangered species, surprisingly easy to handle, though plenty of fingers got burnt picking them up by the wrong end.

In Ancient Runes, nothing much was changing. They were still going on with calligraphy, and the class didn't seem to be letting up on that anytime soon, considering the fact that they weren't even halfway into the alphabet. And it was rather daunting to realise that, once they were done with learning to _draw_ runes, they'd still have to learn the meanings behind them, the linking runes, and pre-created runic arrays before even being allowed to learn _how_ you were supposed to design a new array, which was a requirement for graduating the NEWT class.

DADA, however, was interesting. Actually, that's not true. It was boring, and they learnt about the Green Flutterwib, a supposedly dangerous little bird reminiscent of a jay that didn't do anything but stab someone with their beak, which was hardly frightening. No, the interesting part was what happened after the lesson, when Harry stayed behind to talk with Professor Lupin.

"What is it, Harry?" He asked, glancing up from his paperwork.

"You mentioned training in the Patronus, before the break?" Harry prompted, quirking an eyebrow.

"Ah, yes." Lupin nodded, leafing through his agenda. "Let me see… how about half past eight on Thursday evening? The History of Magic classroom should be large enough."

Harry nodded with a smile. "Sure. Goodbye, Professor."

"Goodbye, Harry. I'll see you on Thursday."

Oo0oO

That Thursday, Harry hurried over to the History of Magic classroom a little after half past eight, only to find the room dark and empty, like Binns had undoubtedly left it that afternoon. With a few flicks of his wand and a couple of muttered spells, the various candles around the room flickered on, and Harry plopped down on one of the desks to wait for Lupin.

He didn't have to wait long; the Professor turned up not even five minutes later, carrying a gigantic, wardrobe-sized trunk like it was paperweight, and briefly, Harry found himself wondering what Lupin did for a job to get muscles like that. "Good evening, Harry." He smiled, easily heaving the trunk on Professor Binns' desk.

"Good evening, Professor. What's that?" Harry asked curiously, hopping down from his desk to come closer.

"A Boggart." Professor Lupin smiled, dumping his cloak on Binns' chair. "I've had to comb through the castle – which, I'm sure you can understand, took quite some time – since my last lesson a few hours ago, and I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch's filing cabinet. I'm not sure if it's the same Boggart as during our lesson, because you can't exactly remember how they look, but it'll work just as well. It's the nearest we'll get to a real Dementor. Though my biggest fear might be the moon, I'm also quite afraid of Dementors, and should be able to manipulate the Boggart into turning into one."

Harry blinked; he'd never heard anyone admit their fears so plainly. The Professor smiled at his surprised look, though he didn't comment. "We'll be able to practise on him. I can store him in my office when we're not using him; there's a cupboard under my desk he'll like. The rest of the classes are done with Boggarts, and we're not going to dispel this one."

"Okay," Harry nodded, taking out his wand.

Lupin took out his own, shooting him a look. "I trust you read the booklet I gave you at Christmas?" Harry nodded. "That's good, I won't have to explain as much. Do you have a happy memory?"

Harry nodded again, thinking of the latest memory of him and Hermione kissing, just a few minutes earlier. Though his first kiss might work slightly better, Harry figured the more recent, the better (and in hindsight, this was a rather stupid assumption, as Magic never works logically, which he really should've learnt at this point).

"Alright then, after me. Expecto Patronum!"

"Expecto Patronum!" Harry repeated, and a wisp of silvery gas whooshed out of the end of his wand. He frowned.

"Very good," Lupin said, not looking disappointed like Harry was in the least. "Right then – ready to give it a shot?"

"Yes," Harry nodded, moving back from Lupin and the desk, and near the far wall.

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.

Contrary to what they were expecting, a silver orb rose from the chest, floating ominously. Professor Lupin frowned. "Hold on, let me –" The Boggart started shifting, going back to an indiscernible shape. "There we go! Ready your wand, Harry."

A Dementor now floated in the moon's place, a pale, disgusting mouth shining out from under its hood as the lights across the room flickered and went out. It turned to Lupin, one hand appearing from within its cloak to extend to the Professor's face – the Dementor floated closer and closer, its cloak silently sweeping behind him like a king's mantle, drawing deep, rattling breaths – a wave of piercing cold broke over him, clawing at his skin, burrowing its way into his heart – Harry steeled his resolve, and waved his wand – "Expecto Patronum!"

Just like before, a wisp of grey smoke sprang from his wand, though it was significantly larger this time, and the Dementor rebounded off of it in a surprised shriek that had Lupin clamping his hands over his ears. It did it twice more, silently trying to get past the protective dome, before the wisp shattered like a mirror, the shards dissipating upon contact with the ground; Lupin concentrated briefly, and it turned back into a moon, which was Riddikulus-ed into a balloon and shot back into the trunk.

Harry was breathing heavily, his hands on his knees. "That was really good, well done, Harry. I didn't expect you to do it on your first try, in fact, I'm astounded that you did it." Professor Lupin said, grinning as he walked back to the trunk to make sure it was shut.

"Here, eat this." Lupin threw him a piece of chocolate – a chocolate frog – which he quickly devoured.

"Thanks, Professor." Harry grinned, before pausing as something Hermione had been talking about caught up with him. "Why is chocolate – why does it –" Harry struggled how to formulate his sentence, "What does it do? Why do you give it after exposure to Dementors?"

The Professor smiled at him, and explained, "Chocolate has some interesting properties. Actually, cacao beans and anything made from them do. They contain a few substances that accelerate the growth of magical cells, for lack of a better term, and basically speed up magic replenishment. One of the basic ingredients for any magic-related potions is usually cacao beans, actually. Not to mention that Chocolate just tastes good." He grinned, and Harry chuckled.

"Back to the original lesson. I'm not going to ask what the memory was, because that would be prying, but – do you have different memory that might work better? I know you're in a relationship with Hermione, so your first kiss, maybe?"

Harry frowned, before nodding. The Professor was probably right. It shouldn't matter how long ago the memory was, just how much he could remember of it, and he could remember that moment _quite_ well. He blushed a little, and Professor Lupin smirked, undoubtedly already knowing what Harry was thinking. Harry walked back to the wall he'd been at the first time. "Ready?" Harry nodded, gripping his wand tightly, and Lupin pulled the lid off again, skirting back to Harry as soon as he did.

The room went icy cold and dark once more. The Boggart had instantly turned into a Dementor this time, which glided forwards, breathing like it was wearing a scuba mask; one rotting hand was extending to Lupin, ready to snatch him up and suck out his soul – "Expecto Patronum!"

Fog sprang from his wand once more; pure white, this time, with only vague wisps of diamond floating around the edges. It was a lot bigger, and it looked much sturdier, too, and the Dementor was pushing against it, determined to get a snack. It rebounded a few times, and Harry counted up to a dozen until he became too tired to hold it up and the Dementor pushed through – but then the moon was there once more, being Riddikulus-ed back into the trunk.

"Amazing, Harry!" Lupin praised, turning back to Harry. "Truly amazing!" Lupin handed Harry another bar of chocolate – Honeydukes' best.

"I think that's enough for today." When Harry looked at him with wide eyes – it hadn't even been fifteen minutes – Lupin chuckled. "Yes, I know it's early still, but your magical core needs to grow before you can last longer. It's like a muscle; the more you use it, the more it grows. For example, should a wizard not use any magic for… let's say ten years, the most that wizard could cast would be from the first-year curriculum on feathers, before exhausting themselves for the hour. Say wizard would be able to cast ten spells the first day; then the next day, he would be able to cast about fifteen, then twenty-two, thirty-three, fifty, etcetera."

"But," Harry blinked at the logic, "why is Dumbledore, for example, stronger than other wizards?"

"That has to do with the… muscle possibility, for lack of a better word. Let's say Dumbledore can hold – oh, I don't know – a thousand units of magic. He would be holding around five hundred right now, as he is far from peaking, but he still has a lot more than, for example, Professor Snape, who will probably max out at five hundred. This is all relative, of course, because no such measuring system exists, and I'm basing all of this off of estimates, but – well, do you get what I'm saying?"

Harry nodded tentatively. "I do, I think. Basically, practise a lot of magic, and you'll be able to do more of it."

"Yes! Exactly!" Lupin paused. "…Well, until you max out, but like I said, Dumbledore probably isn't even halfway there, and he's well into his second century."

Harry nodded again as he shook his Professor's hand. "Alright. I'll see you tomorrow for DADA, Professor."

Professor Lupin chuckled. "Goodbye, Harry."

With a determined face, Harry set out for the Gryffindor Common Room, because he had a task, one that he hadn't actually remembered until the Dementor's ugly mug.

It was time, he grinned, to become a Metamorphmagus.

Oo0oO

Harry gasped as he looked into the mirror. Looking back at him was a blonde version of himself, and he had to say, there were certain things that shouldn't exist, abominations too horrible for this world and the next. Malfoy-Harry was one of them, because Merlin's rotting liver, this was _ugly!_

It was – Harry glanced at the clock – just past one o'clock, a few hours after his lesson with Professor Lupin. He was in the bathroom practising his Metamorphmagus skills; after he had gotten the book from Antioch, he hadn't made much progress, mainly through lack of trying – procrastination is man's greatest enemy – until now.

The book described that he had to _will _his hair to change colour. Now, this wasn't supposed to be difficult, _once the block on your Metamorphmagus powers was lifted._ Ever since an incident where a baby Metamorph accidently rearranged her intestines and killed herself, it had become practise to place blocks on your child, to prevent them from doing so. In most cases, it was a block that still allowed harmless cosmetic changes, such as the colour of your hair, or skin, but Harry had gotten the heavier version, that prevented all changes. Parents usually lifted their child's block when they entered Hogwarts age, and were deemed sensible enough not to push the limits too far, but as Lily and James were dead, that would be quite impossible.

To break the block was ridiculously difficult, though far from impossible. You couldn't do it accidently, for one; you actually had to know that you had Metamorphmagus powers in order to be able to break it. And then there was the will you had to focus to whatever you wanted to change, and the spell, and the intent, and the theory, and – well, suffice to say, it was ridiculously difficult, so it came as a huge surprise that he'd done it on his first night of trying. Thankfully, as soon as Harry had changed his hair to blonde, the block was broken completely, and he was able to cycle his hair through blue, green, red, yellow, orange, purple, brown, and back to black without trouble. _I did it! Finally!_

Now came the question on how to break the news to his friends. He could, of course, just tell them normally, but that wouldn't be any fun, would it? He could go down with Weasley-orange hair, and act like nothing was wrong, or slowly turn his skin green as the day wore on… or maybe he could make it flicker, suddenly making his hair bright blue and immediately getting rid of it to slowly drive people nuts.

Or, he could take the less troublesome approach, and just let fate take its course, which would be way easier. And because easier was always better, Harry went to sleep, deciding not to do anything and let things happen as they went.

Oo0oO

Turns out, fate didn't wait all that long to make its move.

The next morning at breakfast, Malfoy sauntered over for a taunt over their Quidditch match against Ravenclaw the next day. Things got a little out of hand, and they got into a rather hefty argument, which turned Harry's hair bright red in anger. Malfoy nearly pissed himself and fled the Great Hall, screaming about demons and evil Gryffindors. Harry rolled his eyes after realising what was wrong, turned his hair black, and sat back down to continue eating as if nothing had happened, leaving the entire hall staring at him in baffled amazement.

But things, it seemed, weren't resolved so easily, and Dumbledore soon took him up to his office, where Harry was sitting, frowning at the situation.

The Headmaster sighed. "You're a Metamorphmagus, I assume, and not a demon, like Mr. Malfoy claimed you were?" His lips twitched, and Harry shook his head, smiling.

"No, sir. I broke through my block just last night."

"And how, pray tell, did you even find out about having Metamorphmagus powers?" Dumbledore countered immediately. Harry shrugged.

"Would it help if I told you that there is one of my ancestors from the thirteenth century in Hogsmeade, living in a shop that slows time by around eight times, and doesn't allow any customers except people that have special powers, or affinities to certain obscure branches of magic?" Harry asked curiously.

Dumbledore stared at him steadily, before sighing, closing his eyes, and pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. "You know what the bizarre thing about this is?" He asked rhetorically, and it was so out-of-character that Harry suddenly realised that, yes, even Dumbledore could be surprised. "We had a student here, around ten years ago, who, after getting a sudden jump in controlling her Metamorphmagus powers, claimed to have met, and I quote, 'an old geezer in Hogsmeade who claimed he was the famous Antioch Peverell, and had invented some ridiculous time-slowing magibazook all the way back in twelve-hundred-something'."

Harry blinked. "…Coincidence?"

"I'm not even going to attempt to figure this out." Dumbledore shook his head, and started rummaging in his drawer. "You, my boy, are going to fill in this form –" He slid a single piece of parchment over the desk for Harry to pick up, before surfacing again, looking older than he ever had, "And hand it in to me at dinner. Everyone with a magical ability is legally required to register themselves with the Ministry within twenty-four hours of discovering it – or, in the case of Muggleborns, within twenty-four hours of discovering the Magical World – or there's a pretty hefty fine involved. And before you ask, no, Parseltongue isn't considered an ability, it's a language in the eyes of the law, just like Gobbledygook and Mermish."

"Alright." Harry nodded easily, standing up from his seat, taking his form with him. "Goodbye, sir."

"Yes, yes, yes, now get out." Dumbledore motioned for him to leave, sitting back in his chair once the door closed behind Harry with another sigh.

"I'm getting too old for this kind of shit." He grumped.

Oo0oO

Of course, theories on how Harry's hair turned red ran wild. According to most of the Slytherins that cared enough to speculate, he was a demon, sent to Hogwarts from hell to torment the Gryffindors, while Gryffindor claimed him to be the heir to a rare line, which gave him superpowers and allowed him to slay a Basilisk with a tap, and a few of the more rabid fangirls – and, much to his consternation, -boys – liked to believe that he was an Incubus finally coming into his inheritance.

All of that from hair that turned red. Not one person even thought of Metamorphmagus powers until an annoyed Harry was seen delivering a piece of parchment to Dumbledore with dark purple hair, which, in Metamorph-language, meant incredible annoyance. The article featured by the Prophet the next morning put a stamp on the madness, however, claiming that 'The Boy-who-lived has gotten even more powerful by acquiring the powers of a Metamorphmagus'.

As for Harry's friends, they accepted it, and moved on with their lives. Ron was understandably jealous about his ability to eat hundreds of pies without becoming fat, and Hermione felt it necessary to give him a long, hard snog as compensation for the rumours – which, despite not really being offended by them, Harry certainly didn't complain about – while Roxanne felt the need to mention the possibilities down below, wink wink, nudge nudge, leaving everyone in earshot blushing and Hermione ready to slap her hard enough to make her faceplant into her own dinner.

That Saturday, Ravenclaw played against Slytherin in the first match of the new term. Slytherin won, narrowly, but this didn't really affect Gryffindor. Oliver increased the number of practises to four a week regardless – he wanted five, but Hermione threatened him with some… _creative_ things because if he robbed her of even more time with her boyfriend – and, together with Lupin's anti-Dementor classes, this left Harry with only two evenings a week where he could make his homework.

January faded into February without anyone really taking notice. Life went on as it always did, with no change in the cold weather or the dreary mood that seemed to cast itself upon anyone that dared tread outside.

Harry was getting the hang of the Patronus, as well; he'd managed to produce a shield powerful enough to hold off a single Dementor, and Lupin had grinned, clapped him on the back in congratulations, brought out a second boggart, and watched on as the shield Harry had been oh-so proud of crumbled within seconds under the dual assault.

At some point in the month, Scabbers had been eaten – they hadn't noticed it until several days after, which went a long way to show how much Scabbers really meant to everyone – and Ron and Hermione were instantly mad at each other, with Hermione refusing to believe that Crookshanks had done it, and Ron being too stupid to go and get evidence to support his theory aside from the few ginger hairs he'd found next to a small spot of blood close to his bed.

When Harry had gently tried to point out that Ron really had no grounds to stand on in regards to his theory, and that it might just as well have been one of the many other ginger-haired cats in Gryffindor, Ron had yelled at him, claiming that it was all his and Hermione's relationship's fault, because the blasted cat wouldn't have made it to Hogwarts if it wasn't for that, and how they should throw Crookshanks out of the window so he wouldn't harm any other innocent creatures.

Long story short, Ron had been politely informed that he would be sleeping on the Common Room's couch that evening, and, after spending a highly uncomfortable night trying and failing to sleep on the furniture that was definitely _not_ made for sleeping, he apologised to Hermione for overreacting and everyone could get on with their lives again.

And that, as it just so happened, brought them straight to their Quidditch Match with Ravenclaw.

* * *

**_Just FIY, if you're confused about the Boggart and wondering why they didn't just use Harry's like in canon, Lupin speculated that Harry's Dementor was Sirius, because Harry knew about Sirius' status as his parents' murderer here, and he wasn't exactly willing to take the risk and find out._**

**_As for how Lupin found out that Harry knew, it isn't that far-fetched of an assumption that Fudge told Dumbledore about his decision to tell Harry, because he still takes advice from Dumbledore at this point and Harry's, you know, rather important. Dumbledore, in turn, told Lupin when Lupin came with the idea to introduce the classes to a Boggart._**

**_-The Baron_**


	13. Part 3 - Episode 2

.

**Part 3: A Cup of Coffee**

**Episode II**

When Harry went to breakfast on the morning of the match, the Quidditch team had unanimously decided to form some sort of guard around him, protecting Harry – and his Firebolt – from whomever might wish to do them harm. It was more annoying than anything else, really, and completely unnecessary, but the team didn't seem to care.

During breakfast, each House sent over their own 'covert' spies to verify that Harry's broom, which laid on the table in between the members of the team, was actually a Firebolt, and not some fake; Percy's Ravenclaw girlfriend Penelope came over to make a bet over which of the teams was going to win, and oh was that really a Firebolt, while Malfoy came over for his usual taunt, and do you think you can fly that Firebolt, Scarhead, because I'm sure you can't. Hufflepuff, on the other hand, didn't even try to be inconspicuous, choosing to send out their captain, Cedric Diggory.

"Good morning, gentlemen." Diggory greeted amicably as he came to a stop at their table, extending a hand to Harry. "I came here to wish you luck, on behalf of myself and my team, for the upcoming match."

The entire team, who were all sitting around the Firebolt protectively, blinked in surprise. Warily, Harry reached out to shake the Hufflepuff's hand. "Alright… but why? You didn't wish us any luck against Slytherin."

"Well, nobody really needs luck against Slytherin, do they?" Diggory grinned. "But Ravenclaw is actually quite dangerous. They have quite a few clever plays and feints that Slytherin completely ignored, and ploughed straight through – you know, with their all brawns, no brain strategy, there really wasn't any way they could've seen through them."

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Why are you telling us this? It'd only be good for Hufflepuff if we lost today."

"Well, sportsmanship, Hufflepuffism, and all that." Diggory shrugged. "Besides, if you lost now, and we had to play you in two months, you'd be backed into a corner, and willing to attempt all sorts of crazy stuff to get your last win." He shrugged again. "I'll leave you to it, I suppose. Good luck!" He waved jauntily, before moving back to his own table, where he immediately sat together with six others and started discussing 'covertly'. Harry shot them a deadpan look, which went completely ignored, and turned back to his team.

"So, ideas?"

Oo0oO

A few hours of discussion and tactics later, the two Quidditch teams set off to the changing rooms.

The weather was, in stark contrast to their match against Slytherin, quite bright and pleasant. It was sunny, with a rare cloud here and there, and a slight breeze ruffled the dew-covered grass, still drying from the rain the night before. Harry's hair was different, too; following Hermione's suggestion to change his hair every month, he'd changed it to a sort-of neon blue that clashed horribly with his Quidditch robes.

Oliver gave a short pep-talk, right after they'd changed into their robes – and short was an understatement, as he only gave their unofficial motto of 'catch the snitch, or die trying', too nervous to get out much more than that – before they moved out onto the pitch.

The Ravenclaw team was already there when they moved out onto the pitch, standing with the heads of their brooms planted into the ground next to Madam Hooch near the centre of the pitch. Their captain, Davies, smirked when the entire Ravenclaw stands behind him immediately started booing, calling out insults and shaking their fists. Despite their serious nature, even the Ravens couldn't escape the Quidditch hype, and were always as enthusiastic as the other houses when supporting their Quidditch team.

Oliver glared at his rival captain, his knuckles white around his broom as he tried to keep himself from punching that smug smirk from Davies' face – if there was one thing Oliver couldn't stand, it was smug bastards who acted like they'd already won the match that was about to start – but Madam Hooch interrupted before he could, her hawk-like gaze drifting across the pitch from one team to the next. "Shake hands, Wood, Davies." She ordered sharply, her piercing gaze making it quite clear what would happen if they refused.

Oliver scowled, and Davies' smirk grew, though it immediately turned into a slight grimace when Oliver shook his hand, undoubtedly much harsher than was normal. Madam Hooch shot him a warning glance, before taking a few steps back. "Mount your brooms! Three, two, one –"

She whistled sharply, and both teams shot up into the air. Harry snagged the Quaffle before anyone else could, his faster broom giving him a massive advantage over the rest, and immediately shot off to the Ravenclaw goals; one of Davies' chasers had anticipated this, however, and was blocking his path to the goals until he was forced to evade George's Bludger.

Meanwhile, Lee was commentating on entirely different things. "And they're off! The big – no, the massive excitement this match is Harry's Firebolt, the fastest broom on the market right now! Professor McGonagall has strictly forbidden me to talk about it, but otherwise, I'd be telling you interesting facts, such as that the Firebolt has a top speed of over a hundred and fifty miles an hour –"

"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall interrupted sharply, and as Harry shot past the commentator's box in pursuit of the Quaffle, which Davies had stolen when Harry tried to pass to Katie, he saw Lee nodding easily.

"Fine. Davies in possession. Tries to shoot at the goal – interception by Alicia, catching the Quaffle with her beautiful, delicate hands, which really should be holding mine at a table in Madam Puddifoot's –"

"The match, Jordan!"

"Right you are, Professor!" Lee sounded as happy as ever, not even bothered by the constant interruptions. "Gryffindor in possession – Alicia passes to Angelina, who throws to Harry – Burrow tries to intercept, but the Firebolt's acceleration prevents the interception, being able to reach top speed in a little under ten seconds, and Burrow's left staring at Harry's tailbristles as he shoots off to the Ravenclaw goals – an unexpected pass to Katie, and – goal! Ten-nil for Gryffindor! The Firebolt really is an amazing piece of work, isn't it? Though it was designed in the lovely country of England, the world-famous Swedish Runemasters have improved upon the design, adding little things like an even more powerful braking sys–"

"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall interrupted again, and Lee's grin was audible even through the microphone.

"Professor!"

"The match, Jordan!"

"Match? Well, there's a rather famous factory of matches in Denmark I could tell you about, though I forgot the name –"

Harry, who was trying to out-fly a Bludger for long enough for Fred to reach him, sniggered despite the situation he was in as McGonagall's infuriated cry rang out across the station. There was a lot of rumbling in the background, and Lee's voice suddenly sounded a lot fainter.

"Professor – give back the mic – you can't commentate and you know it – that's a fair assessment, Headmaster, I'm not being disrespectful – no – Professor – give it back – I'll commentate on the match, I promise – just don't – let go, Professor – how are you strong enough to defeat a fifth year in a tug of war, anyway? That shouldn't be possible –"

Having escaped the Bludger, Harry chuckled, accepting a pass from Katie to try for a shot at the goal. The Ravenclaw Keeper didn't see it coming, and wasn't fast enough to stop the ball from shooting through the rightmost ring. "Thanks, Professor." Lee's voice sounded normal again, apparently having convinced Professor McGonagall to let go of the mic. "That makes twenty-nil for Gryffindor, and the first goal from Harry, and the first goal a broom as amazing as the Firebolt has scored on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. Ravenclaw in possession."

As the match progressed, it was clear that Ravenclaw was being left behind. Though Diggory had been sort of correct, in that they had a handful of good plays, they still weren't anything really worth noting, and Gryffindor's quadruple Chaser play completely nullified any advanced tactics Ravenclaw might've deployed against them. Neither Seeker did any of the catching, though the Ravenclaw Seeker – Ching, or something – did plenty of the seeking, until Gryffindor was already ninety points ahead, and Ravenclaw had scored three goals.

In truth, nobody would probably even have noticed Chung-or-whatever's find of the Snitch if it wasn't for Oliver keeping a look out for Harry. The girl was certainly a Ravenclaw, having been slowly making her way towards the Snitch, which was floating just under the Slytherin stands, to not alert anyone, and had only shot forwards when she was nearly there, undoubtedly believing she could make it before Harry.

Unfortunately for Ravenclaw, she'd dismissed the Firebolt's acceleration as an exaggeration, and right after Oliver's panicked shout, Harry ignored the Quaffle Angelina was just passing to him – forcing Fred, who was floating beside him, to whack it back over with his bat – and shot right after the other Seeker, pulling up beside her just as she was about to snatch the Snitch.

Harry slapped her hand out of the way, figuring that he'd apologise for the un-chivalrous action later, only to get pushed out of the way himself as Cheng – or something – did the same to him. Harry turned to scowl at her, and shoved her out of the way; however, when he turned back to grab the Snitch and win the match, it was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared in the split-second he didn't pay attention.

"Sorry 'bout that." Harry said, drawing up beside the Ravenclaw Seeker, who was inspecting a new bruise on her hand. "I don't know my own strength sometimes."

Chong – and Harry had given up on trying to figure out her name at this point – smiled, shrugging. "It's fine, Harry. It'll heal in a little while." Then she flew off again, and Harry barely had time to raise an eyebrow at her flippantly familiar attitude before he had to duck to avoid a random Bludger that ploughed through the space his head had been in half a second before.

And the game continued. Gryffindor's leaps and bounds didn't slow by any means as Ravenclaw, backed into a corner, seemed to practically have given up on trying to actually win the game, and soon enough, it rolled around to one-hundred-and-ninety for Gryffindor to seventy for Ravenclaw. It was only then that someone spotted the Snitch again, and this time, it was Harry. Chang, as Lee had reminded Harry the Ravenclaw Seeker was called, had tried - and sometimes succeeded in - pulling quite a few feints, but she'd never actually spotted the small golden ball after that first time.

The Snitch was floating near the Gryffindor goalposts when Harry spotted it, buzzing around Oliver's head like a fly without him even noticing, focused on the Quaffle, which was in Burrow's possession, as he was. With narrowed eyes, Harry shot forward, straight past a startled Burrow, completely focused on the Snitch, sure that it would be gone should anyone approach before he did. Chang tried to intercept, blocking his way to the goals by sitting directly in front of him, but with a slight adjustment and a sloth-grip roll he shot under her straight to the Snitch, that'd only just noticed something was wrong and shot away to the Gryffindor stands behind the goalposts.

No seconds could be spared and fucks could be given as Harry shot straight past Oliver close enough to make their robes brush, in between two of the goals, and banked a sharp right to go after the flighty Snitch, which was making its way back to the centre of the pitch. "Goddammit, Harry!" Oliver cursed as his Seeker shot by him, flinching and bumping his funny bone on the goalpost behind him. "IF YOU DON'T GET THE SNITCH AFTER THAT," He thundered, "I'LL KILL YOU WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS!"

Harry paid no attention to Oliver's roar, however, as he found himself shooting at the ground at a frightening rate in pursuit of the Snitch, Chang trying, and failing, to catch up from behind. He was slowly closing in on the Snitch now – the ground was still quite far away, he'd easily make it – but suddenly, Chang screamed, and Harry's saving-people-thing kicked in, causing him to glance to where she was pointing.

Three Dementors were strolling on the Pitch below. They were staring up at him from beneath their dark hoods, shadows covering most of their faces – a pale, pointed chin stuck out from two of them, while the third's remained covered by its hood – and Harry didn't even stop to think. Whipping out his wand, he twirled it in a well-practised motion – the Dementors took a surprised step back, but Harry wasn't paying attention to little details like that – "EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

The end of his wand erupted into a massive bright silver light, and a massive form shot out, crashing into the Dementors below, sending them flying across the field; but Harry was already back in Seeker-mode, eyes locking back onto the Snitch as it tried to dive away from him. He flattened himself against his broom to go that little bit faster, and stretched out his arm – the ground was a lot closer now, almost dangerously so – Harry leaned forward to reach just that little bit farther – and, as the Snitch banked upward to avoid the ground, Harry snatched it out of the air, barely managing to pull up from his dive in time to avoid death by faceplant.

The stadium roared as loud as a thousand Olivers. Madam Hooch's whistle went completely unheard, and Harry barely had time to smirk in the direction of the Hufflepuff stands, knowing that an infuriated Quidditch Captain had to be sitting somewhere among them, before six scarlet blurs shot forward and smashed into Harry, knocking the wind completely out of him as they hugged each other, laughing in joy as they slowly lowered themselves to the ground, barely paying enough attention to make sure they didn't fall off their brooms. When they did finally stand on solid ground again, a massive wave of Gryffindor Quidditch supporters immediately descended upon them, Ron right at the front, and before they knew it, they had been engulfed in people like Pompeii in lava.

"Hell yeah!" Ron was yelling, seemingly trying to dislocate Harry's shoulder by pulling his arm so hard into the air, he thought it was going to fall off. "That was bloody brilliant! Yeah!"

"While I appreciate your enthusiasm, Ron," An amused voice came from behind them, "Harry doesn't seem to be enjoying your, ah – lengthy stature."

Ron and Harry turned around to face Professor Lupin, who was smiling down at them as Ron let go of Harry's arm with a muttered 'sorry' and chose to throw an arm around Harry's shoulder instead. "That was quite some Patronus, Harry." The Professor grinned. "A corporeal one. Truly amazing, after only a few months. Unfortunately, it was going too fast for me to catch its form, and it was quite weak as far as corporeal Patronuses go, but nevertheless, don't doubt me when I say that I'm proud of you, Harry."

Harry beamed at the praise. Lupin scratched the back of his head. "There is one small thing you should know, though, Harry. The Dementors… they weren't exactly Dementors. Take a look." He motioned over to one end of the crowd, and together they weaved through it, breaking through the edge half a minute later.

Ron couldn't hold in his laughter and fell on the ground laughing, pointing at the four idiots that had dressed themselves up as Dementors, while Harry just stood and stared, stupefied that idiocy on such a level really existed. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Flint lay on the ground, tangled in three long, tattered, black robes. "Malfoy stood on Goyle's shoulders." Professor Lupin offered as explanation, unable to hold in a grin as Professor McGonagall yelled at them, her reprimands going unheard over the cheering crowd.

If there was anything that could've made Gryffindor's day any better than it already was, it was this, and the entire House made its way to the common room laughing, cheering, and anticipating the party that was to come. All but Harry, who had been held back by Hermione to talk in private on the empty pitch.

"…You should really stop pulling such stunts, Harry." She said after a few minutes, her head buried in Harry's chest. "You're going to give me a heart attack someday." Harry chuckled, wrapping his arms around Hermione's shoulders.

"I can't, and you know that. I like Quidditch almost as much as I like you, and that's saying a lot."

Hermione sighed fondly. "Yes, I know, and I wouldn't ask you to stop just for me. But a girl can hope, can't she?"

Harry smiled, and moved one hand to push her head up, so he could see her eyes. "If you really, really want me to stop – if you'll break up with me if I don't – then – then I will. We'll have to fend off Oliver, of course, but if you really want me to, I will."

His girlfriend grinned, and reached up to give him a short kiss. As she pulled back, Harry suddenly realised that there was a tear brimming in her eye; before he could mention it, however, Hermione had already wiped it away. "No," She shook her head, "Like I said, I won't ask you to do that, Harry. I can't expect you to. But it means a lot to me that you'd be willing to do that, just for me." Hermione gave him another kiss, longer, this time; before grabbing his hand and starting to walk to the pitch's exit. "Come on. There's a party going on, remember?"

Harry smiled fondly, silently wondering what he'd done to deserve such a wonderful girlfriend.

Oo0oO

The party lasted all evening, and well into the night. Fred and George had – with the help of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, as Fred muttered to Harry with a grin – acquired several crates of Butterbeer, Firewhiskey, and Irish Ale, and an entire box chock-full of Honeydukes sweets of all kinds, which they dragged into the common room from their dormitories around ten o'clock. Everyone was participating in the festivities; the couches and chairs had been moved to the walls, and the entire common room had become one massive dance floor as a massive jukebox that one of the Muggleborns had engraved with runes to function with magic pumped out music at full volume all night, pulling even Hermione along for the ride as she, for one night, decided to put her studies out of her mind and shared a small flask of Firewhiskey with her boyfriend.

It felt as if they had already won the championship, honestly. Angelina was snogging George on one of the couches near the fire, Seamus was drunk on Ale and decided to karaoke some folk songs, and Ron was making an idiot of himself trying to sing along and failing horribly. The party probably wouldn't have ended until they ran out of Butterbeer and the twins weren't able to get anymore, but Professor McGonagall got fed up with the noise around two o'clock and came down to shoo everyone into bed, her hair down from her usual knot and down all the way to her knees and wearing a weird, un-McGonagall-y flower-patterned nightgown. It was probably the second-best night of Harry's life – the first having, of course, been the night he hooked up with Hermione – and he crawled into bed feeling satisfied that his day had gone much, much better than he could ever have hoped for.

Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, Harry started dreaming. He was flying, soaring high on his Firebolt as the stadium roared below him – he was flying over, no, participating in a World Championship match – and that was Krum, his rival seeker, diving down low to go after a golden glint, and Harry dived after him – they passed the stands, nearing the ground, coming closer and closer – Krum failed to go up in time, and crashed into the ground face-first, but Harry came up earlier, and wrapped his hand around the snitch, closing his eyes in joy – he'd done it, he'd won the championship; however, when he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in the World Championship stadium anymore; instead, he was floating above the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch at night, and there was someone flying over to him; it was Hermione, who was only wearing a Quidditch robe, open at the front, exposing the two best things known to man – her own two Quaffles, for Harry's eyes and hands only – Harry grinned in his sleep as his typical teenage Wizard's dream was about to turn into a typical teenage Muggle's dream –

"MERLIN'S SAGGY TITS! THAT'S SIRIUS BLACK!"

Harry shot awake feeling as if Dobby had charmed another Bludger and it'd hit him right in the brains – _probably a side-effect from the Firewhiskey, then,_ Harry's grumpy mind supplied – and fumbled blearily with his curtains to try and pull them open. From the sounds of it, Seamus and Dean were having the same troubles as himself. "Wha's goin' on?" Seamus asked, yawning, clearly having just woken up like the rest of them.

At last, Harry found the little rope, and pulled his curtains open. Dean, known to stay up past midnight even on schooldays to indulge in his creative urges, had flicked on a light, and was gaping at Ron, who was lying on his bed, staring stupefied at his ripped curtains. "Black! Sirius Black! With – with a knife! Right here!"

Seamus, who had just peeked his head out between his curtains, winced. "Goddammit, Ron, do you really have to be so loud? And because of a dream, too."

"I know what I saw!" Ron didn't seem like he was going to calm down anytime soon, and Harry had to stop himself from frowning at the throbbing in his head – _I think I drunk more than Hermione, so she should be good; that's something, at least_ – even as Ron continued ranting. "He slashed my curtains! How the bloody hell would my curtains get ripped if it wasn't for Black?"

Neville, quite possibly the only one of them who had remained completely sober, frowned at Ron. "Are – are you sure you weren't dreaming, Ron? Or sleepwalking, maybe?"

"The knife is right there." Harry groaned, pushing himself out of bed to shuffle over and pick up the butter knife at the foot of Ron's bed. "But still, he couldn't have just walked in. Sir Cadogan is there, isn't he?"

"That isn't the point!" Ron interrupted, and Harry flinched back, clutching his head as his suddenly ex-best friend roared right in his ear. The redhead didn't seem to notice. "He was right there! He could've killed me!"

Just then, the door to the dormitory opened. George peeked through the opening, looking around the room with a quirked eyebrow. "Did one of you yell? We all heard a girlish sort of scream, but the girls all say they weren't it, and you're the only ones who haven't come down to the common room."

"How the hell are you not writhing on the floor in agony at the noise Ron was making?" Harry asked grumpily, quite sure that George had slugged down an entire bottle of Firewhiskey by himself, and that was after sharing one with his brother, and that wasn't even speaking of the two he shared with Angelina. George blinked, before grinning.

"Hung over, are you?" Silently twirling his wand, Harry grinned in thanks as he felt his headache let up. George did the same for Seamus and Dean, but Ron chose that moment to interrupt again.

"Has everyone completely forgotten that Black was just here, trying to kill me?" Ron demanded, and George raised his second eyebrow.

"…You're still dreaming, aren't you?"

"Go and ask Cado-bloody-gan, then, if you don't want to believe me!" Ron growled. "He must've let him in. Never should've trusted that bloody knight. All Black would have had to do was win some sort of armpit-smelling contest and he'd have been let in, no problem."

And indeed, it seemed after McGonagall started questioning Sir Cadogan, the painting had "let some scruffy-looking feller in, yes, certainly, m'lady McGonagall! Had the entire week's passwords, he did! All on a slip of parchment!"

Professor McGonagall immediately rounded on the common room, asking who had been foolish enough to leave the passwords of Gryffindor Tower lying around. Neville's resounding frightful squeak had made the guilty party quite obvious.

Oo0oO

Thankfully, Professor McGonagall didn't punish her entire house by subtracting hundreds of house points, like she could've done. Instead, Neville got detention for an entire month, the first half to be spent with Filch and the second with herself, revoked his Hogsmeade privileges for the rest of the year, and promised to talk to Augusta about the matter. That last might have very well been the harshest punishment, and Neville received a howler at breakfast the next morning, which started yelling loud enough to still be heard in the Great Hall, even though the poor Longbottom was down at the bottom of the Entrance Hall, likely having tried to make it outside to not be overheard by the entire school.

"It's kind of sad." Hermione told Harry one evening in the common room, while Neville was polishing silver with Filch. "I mean, he could have written it in an enchanted journal, so only he could see it, but still – to make his grandmother send him a howler on top of everything else…"

Ron, meanwhile, was more popular than ever. Girls came to him – and Harry and Hermione, since they were usually with the redhead – to hear him regale the supposedly magnificent tale, which got more embellished, ridiculous, and unbelievable each time. "I was asleep, just peacefully unawake, and then I heard this loud, sharp ripping noise, as if someone was tearing cloth in two, and I woke up, and Sirius Black was standing over me." He could be heard claiming loudly in the second-floor corridor a few days after the incident. "Let me tell you – he's nothing like the pictures in the Prophet. He had massive muscles, like a bodybuilder, and was holding one of those massive butcher knives – y'know, the huge, rectangular ones – and this really menacing expression, like he was going to kill me, slowly, and he was going to enjoy it, and snuff out his cigar with my chopped-off finger afterwards. I remember his long, scruffy hair falling into his face, and his bright grey eyes glaring through the bangs, staring into my very soul. I must've been way scarier than he thought, though, because I saw his eyes widen in fright; and I roared a battle-cry, and was about to stand up and fight him to the death; but he was too scared, too afraid of my might, and he ran away with his tail between his legs like a scared little puppy in the face of a massive lion.

"But – why?" Ron muttered to his friends, the only ones who he didn't hold up the charade to, after the two second-year Hufflepuffs that had lapped up the story had rounded the corner. "Why did he run?"

"Because he was too afraid of the mighty battle-scarred lion he was to be facing in battle." Hermione giggled, and slapped a glaring Ron on the shoulder. "No, it's kind of obvious, isn't it? He'd have had to murder the entire House, and by that point, the Hogwarts wards will have notified the Headmaster, who'd have rounded up the Professors and gone to meet Black in the hallway. No matter how good any one duellist is, they're not going to be able to beat Dumbledore and Flitwick when they're working together, let alone all the other Professors."

"Is Flitwick really such a big deal?" Ron asked sceptically.

"I mentioned him on the train, didn't I?" Harry reminded his forgetful friend. "Before he became a Hogwarts Professor, he was six-time consecutive winner of the International Wizarding Duelling Championship Tournament, where he went up against the likes of Head Aurors and Heads of the DMLE of several countries, some of the most successful Hit Wizards, and even the Headmasters and -mistresses of several schools. He holds the title for most consecutive wins, and is beaten only by Nicholas Flamel in amount of wins, because of the Philosopher's Stone. Unfortunately, because he's also part Goblin, he doesn't really get the amount of credit he deserves."

However, that wasn't to say that Goblins weren't frightening. Sir Cadogan had been replaced with the Fat Lady and, at his request, moved into the Gryffindor common room, where he was constantly terrorising the entire House. However, the Fat Lady had only promised to come back if she would get added security, and security she got; two of Gringotts' finest Goblin Warriors, basically mercenaries-for-hire, had hidden themselves outside the portrait, unseen in the shadows of the castle; however, their piercing red eyes followed everyone that entered the common room, scouting for Black, and nobody could help the shiver they got when their eyes accidentally met with a Goblin's.

It was probably a good thing, however, that Dumbledore had chosen to hire stealthy Goblins instead of, for example, massive trolls, which would've broadcasted the location of the common room to the other Houses – to Slytherins – for a time when they wouldn't have to battle their way past a pair of deadly beings to play a prank on their rival House.

And speaking of deadly beings, Black had escaped again, and nobody knew where he went. Even Harry, who, with the help of Fred and George, had scouted the entire castle and its grounds with the Marauder's Map, had come up with nothing. It was infuriating, to have the security of one of the safest, most well-warded places in Magical Britain be breached so easily, and to be unable to find the culprit after. Ultimately, however, there was really nothing anyone could do, except tighten the security and hope there wasn't a leak somewhere that would allow Harry's godfather to slip through and kill the currently blue-haired lad.

And so, life went on. The incident got shoved to the back of peoples' minds, to be replaced with the Hogsmeade weekend the week after. Ron was forced to step back off his pedestal, though not before securing a date – "Have you seen her knockers?" He told his dorm mates enthusiastically one evening. "Lavender's got massive ones – probably double D's, at least –" – while Hermione had been convinced by Parvati, Padma, and Fay Dunbar to go shopping with them. This left Harry to sit on a ledge a little ways away from Hogsmeade with Dean, Neville, Lee, and a knocked-out Seamus, who had tried to woo an apparently married woman and got knocked out in one punch by her husband.

Glancing over his equally bored companions, Harry could do nothing but sigh at their pathetic girl-less situation and pray that the next Hogsmeade weekend wouldn't be as lonely as this one, because one of them would probably off themselves just to break the silence.


	14. Part 3 - Episode 3

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**Part 3: A Cup of Coffee**

**Episode III**

Lupin blinked. "Well," He stated eventually, sounding quite dry. "That was unusual."

Harry shot him a look that could've made the Gobi Desert seem moist. "You think?"

"…You wouldn't happen to be a Dark Lord in training, would you?"

"I'd be learning to control Dementors instead of chasing them away, wouldn't I?"

"Point, I suppose."

"…What the hell was that thing, anyway?"

"If I knew, I'd have told you."

Oo0oO

_A couple of minutes earlier…_

"Hey, you're actually on time today."

Lupin smiled at Harry, who was leaning against one of the various desks scattered across the classroom. "Quite. I'm just as curious as you are, to be honest – I've never seen anyone else, save for Professor Dumbledore, perform the Patronus Charm, let alone learn how to do it."

"Well, no time like the present, right?" Harry took out his wand, but before he could cast, Professor Lupin interrupted.

"Hold on, Harry. What were you thinking of when you cast the Patronus during the match, Saturday? It's quite a personal question, so feel free to refrain from answering if it's something personal, but –"

Harry completely ignored the rambling Professor, and looked up, trying to recall. "I don't think it was a memory, honestly." Harry admitted, cutting straight across Lupin's apologies. "I didn't really have time to recall a specific scene. I suppose it was more just the – I don't know – butterflies in your stomach thing, which I always get around Hermione."

"Ah." Lupin said even as he blinked in surprise, suddenly quite eloquent. "Well – see if you can summon that feeling, and if you can't, just try to remember it, try to grip it. Imagine kissing Hermione, if it helps." Harry nodded, facing the door to the classroom, which was largely empty of desks, and brought up his wand.

"Expecto Patronum!" He yelled, and his wand erupted into bright light – it didn't shift into a wall immediately, and briefly, Harry felt like it was going to work on his first try – but then, the mist spread out again into a familiar wall, and with a pout, he cut off the spell, turning back to Lupin, who was watching with a raised eyebrow.

"If you did this on your first try, I'd have had you skip the rest of Hogwarts and head over to the University of Defence in Prague immediately as the youngest student in the history of the school." He motioned to Harry's wand. "Go on, try again."

"Fine." Harry might've sounded whiny even to his own ears, but he had the right to; he'd been able to do it perfectly well on Saturday when he wasn't even thinking about it, but now, when he was deliberately trying to do the same thing, he couldn't, even though he was actually trying to.

He turned back to the door of the classroom, and raised his wand, much like before, trying to recall the feeling of Hermione's lips on his, the way he felt as she laid with him in one of the common room's loveseats, her intoxicating scent as she propped her head under his after showering – "Expecto Patronum!"

At once, the room was bathed in a bright light, filling every nook and cranny with silver, almost holy light. A massive silvery-white form burst from the tip of Harry's wand, soaring through the air, coming to a stop a few feet from them with four soft clacks of hooves against wood.

The first thing Harry thought of when seeing the form of his Patronus was a Pegasus, a simple horse with wings. But that theory was discarded just as quickly, as his eyes were drawn to the gaunt, skeleton-like body, with countable ribs and a distinct breastbone, and to the equally gaunt, almost reptilian face, where a pair of bright, intelligent eyes shone out from their sockets, staring unblinkingly at them as it moved up to Harry for him to pet it.

But perhaps the most unusual part about his Patronus was that it was black. Sure, it was distinctly outlined in the familiar silvery-white stuff Harry's earlier barriers had been made out of, and the soft, wispy, unnatural feel of its skin reminded Harry that it was most definitely a Patronus and not an actual animal he'd summoned on accident, but its body was, for the most part, made out of an almost malignant-looking black, that shifted and curled around itself restlessly, like a snake waiting to strike.

Then, Harry's Patronus dissipated, and wisps of black and silvery-white smoke drifted apart from one another, scattering themselves around the room before dissipating into nothingness themselves, bathing the room in its gloomy candlelight once more.

Oo0oO

The Headmaster blinked. "Well," He stated eventually, sounding quite dry. "That was unusual."

Harry snorted, grinning, and Lupin barely managed to stop himself from inhaling tea up his nose, coughing loudly instead. Dumbledore shot them a curious look, but didn't comment, turning to his bookcase instead. "That creature was a Thestral, a breed of winged horses often associated mainly with highly inconvenient things, such as death, and horrible diseases." Harry and Lupin shared a bemused look. 'Highly inconvenient'? "This is because one is only able to see them after witnessing death, and accepting it."

Professor Lupin sucked in a breath, and Harry raised both eyebrows. "But – I've never seen anyone die. I mean, I sometimes have vague nightmares of the night my parents died, but all those involve is some kind of green flash, and there was Dudley's tortoise when I was eight that he accidently sat on and squished up his – er – dark side of the moon, so to speak, and it had to be surgically removed, but apart from that –"

"'Dark side of the moon?'" Dumbledore asked amusedly, and Harry flushed slightly. The Headmaster shook his head, still sifting through his miniature library. "No matter. It had to be something or someone you are emotionally attached to, not a friend or family member's pet, or even your parents; at one years old, you don't have a good enough perception of the world around you to fully grasp the situation – ah, here we go."

Dumbledore returned to the table with a thick tome in his arms, which he dumped on the table. Then, he took out his wand, and made a swish often associated with charms. "Invenit Thestral." He incanted, glancing up at Harry as the book automatically started leafing through its pages. "Quite the handy spell." He commented. "You can use it to find any word in a book – to find a sentence, you can use Invenimus instead. Saves one a lot of time when looking for something elusive – for example, references on Flamel's work, which is generally quite obscure." Dumbledore's twinkly eyes revealed that he knew exactly why Harry and his friends had spent so much time in the library in their first year, and mentally, Harry cursed omniscient old codgers for knowing everything that goes on in their schools.

As if he was reading his mind, the Headmaster's eyes started twinkling even brighter, which Harry hadn't even thought possible, but their attention was drawn to the book when it suddenly stopped leafing and laid open at two pages. "There we are." Dumbledore said pleasantly, pushing his half-moon glasses a little further up his nose as he trailed one finger along the text. "Let's see… _Visible by those that have seen death,_ yes, we know… _Omens of death,_ my – ahem – dark side of the moon…" He cast an amused glance at Harry, who flushed – "_Skeletal appearance?_ I wouldn't have guessed… ah, here we go. _Because of its close ties to death, none shall ever feel truly comfortable with a Thestral, despite their good intentions. This, oftentimes, comes unbidden to the human; there is an aura around any Thestral, even young foals, though theirs might be less strong, that makes them feel almost claustrophobic, and causes chills to crawl up their spine. It is therefore impossible, even for Dark Lords that revel in mass-genocide, to have a Thestral as Patronus._"

Harry's eyebrows were raised into his hairline, and Lupin was now actually choking on his tea. "So, my boy," Dumbledore clasped his hands in front of him, letting them fall atop the book as he peered at Harry, "why have you – once more – done the impossible, and is your Patronus a Thestral?"

Oo0oO

Unfortunately, nobody had an answer. Dumbledore had several theories he was unwilling to share, but he told them that they were for the most part even more unlikely than Harry being an actual genocide-addicted Dark Lord, so there wasn't really a point – unless, the Headmaster had added slyly, Harry was an actual genocide-addicted Dark Lord, but Harry had decided that the barmy old coot didn't have anything else to say at that point and excused himself.

On a less depressing point, Hermione had apologised for letting herself get dragged off by the Patils and Fay that Saturday and leaving Harry all alone by himself with his equally lonely friends, but she promised to make it up to him on their next date, which basically meant the next Hogsmeade weekend. Harry, of course, had pouted, having been hoping for something a bit sooner, and Hermione had smiled cutely, glanced around biting her lip like she was about to do something extremely naughty, and promptly gave him a mouth full of tongue.

Patronus fuel? Hell yeah.

March came and went quickly, and with it passed Ron's fourteenth birthday and quite a few gifts that went the redhead's way. Harry's hair turned from bright blue to dark green and into a dark crimson as March zipped by like a Snitch on steroids, before the metaphorical Seeker put a stop to its hyper game when the Easter Holidays arrived, and everything suddenly slowed to a painfully slow crawl.

"Holidays are meant to be relaxing!" Dean's displeasure on the matter was quite clear. "What are those idiots doing, assigning _twenty-four inches_ of homework AND EXPECTING US TO BE ABLE TO FINISH IT WITHIN A WEEK WHEN _EVERYONE_ DOES!" Apparently, other than being able to draw beautifully, Dean had a talent for bursting eardrums as well.

Harry, meanwhile, had the dubious pleasure of having Quidditch practice six days of the week, tactics discussions on the seventh, and having to fit his mountainous stack of homework in between that and Hermione, who, in Harry's opinion, warranted just as much attention as Quidditch and homework did. Hermione's stance was, of course, quite obvious – "Oh honestly, Harry! Homework first. Fun can come later." – which didn't really make things any easier, because Harry now had to spend just as much time convincing Hermione that, no, homework could come later, and yes, it _was_ more important to snuggle up with your boyfriend every now and then so they don't go completely nutters from the working.

Well – the assessment that Harry was going nutters from just the homework was perhaps a tad bit unfair. Oliver was, really, putting just as much pressure on Harry, to the point of memorising his schedule and trailing him between classes in order to 'inspire confidence' into him – again, note the quotation marks.

"If Diggory catches the Snitch while they're seventy points behind, they'll still win. Any more than that, and they're done – you'll be able to break off to start looking for the Snitch. You got that, Harry? Only break off when we're eighty points in front, or we'll lose the Cup. If we go below that again, you'll need to break back in. You've got it, haven't you? If you break off before we're –"

"SHUT UP, OLIVER!" Harry yelled as he slipped into the Ancient Runes classroom, shutting the door behind him as soon as he entered. "I'm sorry I'm late, Professor Babbling." He apologised, heading over to his usual spot next to Hermione. "There's a homicidal maniac after my head."

"What?" Babbling stood up, looking quite panicked. "Black's here? The classroom's warded for silence should a rune go awry and blow, but it won't protect against anything else –"

"No, not Black. Oliver." Harry shrugged. "I think I'd prefer Black, though."

Seamus sniggered.

Oo0oO

The third match – against Hufflepuff – was coming up the Saturday after the holidays, and tensions were at an all-time high. Hufflepuff's team was good, arguably as good as Gryffindor's would have been without their fourth Chaser, and Oliver was careful – annoying – enough to send an entire squad of enthusiastic Gryffindors with him wherever he went, to protect Harry and the Firebolt much like they had before the match against Ravenclaw.

As an added security measure, the Goblins that were stationed outside the Fat Lady's portrait had been shoved a bit of gold to stop anyone that wasn't Harry that left the common room with a shiny silver broom, and a pair of seventh-years had become an honour guard outside the third-years' dorm to prevent possible thieves from entering and nicking the priceless broom for Hufflepuff who, despite their friendly reputation, probably wouldn't be averse to stealing it for themselves.

That Saturday, Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall to tremendous applause. Harry's usual two seventh-year guards were there with the team, as well, to deter any would-be last minute attackers, but the rest of Gryffindor was sitting at their table, clapping and cheering loudly. Half of Ravenclaw was clapping along, too; the rest, however, was booing, and calling out a great plethora of creative insults. Hufflepuff and Slytherin were doing the same, though far be it for the Slytherins to support the 'Puffs; they were simply against everyone, and would probably prefer if anyone suddenly suffered a mass aneurysm and fainted a few hundred feet in the air, becoming pancakes on the field below.

Though their entry was spectacular, the Gryffindors could hardly stuff food down their throats. Wood spent the entire breakfast sipping down one glass of water, and didn't manage to get more than half of it done, the twins shared a miniature bagel that didn't get finished, and Harry barely managed to choke down a glass of orange juice. Alicia somehow munched down the quarter of a sandwich, though Angelina and Katie didn't even try and just sat there, discussing tactics, and Ron was trying to force everything they had managed to gulp down back up by scarfing down entire plates of English Breakfast at a frightening rate.

Around halfway through breakfast, Oliver excused himself to go test the weather conditions, and the Twins left soon after to help; Harry and the Chasers were originally planning to stay until the end of breakfast, but when Ron gulped down a chicken leg, two handfuls – yes, _hand_fuls, because cutlery was apparently _so_ 1993 – of brown beans, and a piece of bacon, and washed it away in one go with an entire goblet of pumpkin juice, it was unanimously decided that it was high time to go.

"Alright," Oliver was muttering when they walked onto the pitch, "Our soil's rather hard, that's good for a nice start – how's it looking on your end, Fred, George?"

"A little moist!" Fred called back from the Hufflepuff side of the field. "Not muddy, but –"

"That'll give us a good kick off, very well." Oliver nodded to himself, motioning the Twins back over. "We'll open into a Parkinson, maybe an Irv leading into the Kruger – get that first shot in before they can do anything, but it'll leave us open to an offensive Swap –"

"Oliver?" Angelina sounded quite amused. "Aren't you taking this a _bit_ too seriously? It's just a game. An important one, for sure, but still just a game."

"But it's not to Oliver, is it?" Alicia answered for their Captain, smiling a little. "To Oliver, it's his last chance to show that he can play, that he should be taken in by one of the big Quidditch teams. There'll undoubtedly be some scouts here – there always are, when there's two good teams playing – and if Oliver doesn't use this, then it's going to be Quidditch Camp, and hoping that someone worthwhile shows up. Right, Oliver?"

"Exactly." Wood nodded, standing up from his crouch. "If I don't show what I have now, if we screw this up, I'll probably be taken in by one of the minor leaguers, for sure, but they're mostly hobbyists. I want to become a professional Keeper, and hobbyists are never motivated – or well-funded – enough to join in with the major league. Other slots – Seekers, Chasers, even Beaters – have it rather easy." The rest of the team frowned at this, but Oliver ploughed through with his argument. "As any other player, you can go looking for opportunities to shine. Doing a Wronski Feint, making some difficult manoeuvre, getting some advanced team-play in, seeking out Bludgers – all a Keeper can do is wait, and hope that someone makes some kind of difficult shot at the goal that you're able to get."

"While I get what you're saying –" Harry interrupted, "I still think you're judging a bit unfairly. We don't go looking for those things, because they very often go wrong, and that's what makes us get noticed so easily. Face it, Oliver, everyone can catch a thrown ball on a broomstick." Oliver frowned. "Sure, they might never have a sliver of a chance against even a minor league hobbyist, but they can still do it. I don't think a three-year-old can pull of a Wronski, however, or hit a Bludger hard enough to send it away again."

"True, I suppose," Oliver allowed, "but that doesn't make being a Keeper any easier. I mean, if a three-year-old had –"

"–been where you are right now, he'd have been in his Quidditch robes already." Madam Hooch finished for Oliver, walking up to them. "Everyone's about to enter the stands, and I know for a fact that the Hufflepuff team is changing already. If I were you, I'd get off the field and change before you're supposed to play in pants. And Mr. Potter? You won't be needing your wand today." A small smile flickered across her face. "I daresay there aren't going to be any more Dementors on the pitch this time."

Harry flushed, fingering his wand in his pocket. "Yes, Madam Hooch."

The rest of the team, however, gaped. Madam Hooch had smiled. Madam _Hooch_ had _smiled._ That didn't happen. Trelawney was a fraud, McGonagall couldn't be soft to anyone, and Madam Hooch didn't smile. These were commonly accepted facts of Hogwarts, though apparently just as much hogwash as Lockhart's ability as a teacher.

Suddenly, Katie wondered if she should watch out for a prophesy in her next Divination lesson, because who knew what could happen now.

Oo0oO

"And here they are, the Gryffindor Quidditch team!" Lee yelled enthusiastically as they walked onto the field. "Potter, Bell, Johnson, Spinnet, Weasley, Weasley, and Wood! Widely acknowledged as the best side Hogwarts has seen in a good few years –"

The rest of Lee's speech was drowned out by boos from the Hufflepuff side of Ravenclaw, Slytherin – who were just booing at everything – and Hufflepuff, who were all waving badger-covered banners. Where the Gryffindors and the other half of Ravenclaw was wearing and waving lion-themed paraphernalia, Slytherin was doing everything they could to insult either one. Snakes were killing lions and badgers all over a couple of seventh-years' banners, quite a few lower-years were holding a whole range of foam cheering hands with middle fingers raised, and in the air above Snape hung a massive animated banner that continuously showcased a badger butchering a lion.

"And here come the Hufflepuffs! That's Captain Diggory, up front – and there come Chasers Preece, Macavoy, and Applebee, Beaters O'Flaherty and Rickett, and that's Keeper Fleet, bringing up the rear. I don't know why you would _want_ to have your names announced when you're called Applebee and O'Flaherty, but there you go." More boos, but Lee didn't seem to mind.

"Captains, shake hands!" Madam Hooch ordered sharply, all traces of earlier kindness gone; Diggory was amiable enough, but judging from his grimace, Oliver's grip was tight enough to nearly crush his hand. Whether that was deliberate or merely nerves, Harry couldn't tell, but Madam Hooch gave Wood a sharp warning glance regardless, much like their other official match, against Ravenclaw.

"Mount your brooms! Three, two, one –" Her sharp whistle was barely heard over the cheering crowd as Harry shot up and snagged the Quaffle right from under Preece's nose. Despite their earlier scepticism about how serious Oliver was taking the match, they still stuck to the plan, and Harry shot forward to the goal while the Chasers all circled the Keeper, Fleet, to prevent him from getting to the goals before Harry did. Before Hufflepuff – or the crowd – had even realised what was happening, Harry had dunked the Quaffle in one the goal, and a loud DING-DING-DING signalled the first score for Gryffindor.

Meanwhile, Lee hurried to catch up. "Oh dear lord, this is going fast – Harry takes the Quaffle and shoots forward while the Chasers hold back Fleet in an Irv, one of the classic opening moves of four-Chaser Quidditch play. However, Harry doesn't shoot but dunks, giving them five points instead of ten – what are you doing, Harry –"

One of the advantages of dunking the Quaffle was that the Keeper wasn't required to throw out after, you could just pick it up again and go for another score. But Fleet had already reached the goals, and was preventing Harry from throwing to score again. With a smirk, Harry threw the Quaffle over the goals, where Katie was already floating to catch it and chuck it right in the unprotected side of the goals.

"Very nicely done!" Lee said approvingly as the Gryffindor supporters roared in excitement, and the lion on Snape's banner ripped the badger it was fighting to shreds. "The Irv was smoothly transitioned into a Kruger, very rarely used because not many players are willing to take the risk of an interception, which is always very high near the enemy goals – Fleet throws out, and Hufflepuff is in possession."

And so the game continued. It was quite possibly the fastest-paced game at Hogwarts in living memory, and even Dumbledore, who had been at Hogwarts for most of his life, told Lee in an impromptu interview that he had trouble remembering another such outstanding game. Hufflepuff was getting left behind, yes, but that didn't mean they weren't putting up a magnificent fight along the way. Oliver got plenty of the difficult throws he'd been hoping for, and Harry honestly believed that had he not been playing as fourth Chaser, and had Oliver been even slightly less good, they would've been neck-and-neck. Fleet was one heck of a Keeper, too, when Gryffindor wasn't pulling weird stuff like the Kruger; almost all straight-up throws, he caught, and he was always there when someone tried to dunk. Not as good as Oliver, but he was up there, and in a few years, Harry honestly wouldn't be surprised to see him in the professional circuit.

"Gryffindor in possession!" Lee yelled enthusiastically. "Angelina shoots forward – a Bludger from O'Flaherty, defended by Weasley – Ouch! The other Bludger slams into Fred's back, he couldn't turn around in time – Fred slams into Angelina, who drops the Quaffle – Macavoy takes it, heads for the Gryffindor goals – Fred's Bludger from earlier is knocked towards Macavoy by George, and Macavoy passes to Preece – magnificent interception by Harry, back to Angelina – Katie accepts the pass but throws it right back as Rickett throws his bat hard enough to send the Bludger, still quite the ways away, flying towards her – yes, that's totally legal, Professor, an advanced tactic – Alicia, surprisingly, intercepts, and shoots right for the Hufflepuff goals – she hands it over to Harry, flying alongside her – and Harry swerves around the goalposts, circling back around to throw it in the leftmost goal from behind, which Fleet wasn't fast enough in guarding! That's fifty-five to twenty for Gryffindor! Hold on, has Diggory seen the Snitch?"

Diggory was diving to the ground as fast as his Nimbus would allow him to go, and Harry momentarily forgot to breathe when he saw a golden glint in front of his rival Seeker – without thinking, Harry shot down after Diggory, but he wasn't going fast enough, he was going to be too late – and Diggory caught the golden glint, which he immediately – began strapping to his arm?

"IT WAS A TRICK!" Lee yelled, completely outraged. "Diggory dropped his golden watch and made everyone think it was the Snitch! That dirty toe-sucking armpit-licking walking stain of pubic stench!"

"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall gasped. "We do _not _say such things here!"

"Yes, Jordan!" Diggory smirked, floating in front of the commentator's box. "Listen to your Professor for once!"

Lee scowled, and flipped him the bird. Diggory laughed as he shot off again, and Professor McGonagall fumed. "JORDAN!" She roared. "APOLOGISE, NOW!"

"It's not my fault he's being an ass." Lee snapped.

"He might, but that's no reason to – to – to raise your finger like that, especially in front of guests!"

"They're laughing, Professor! They don't mind, you're the only one that does!" Lee argued. There was a clearing of a throat in the background, and Dumbledore's voice rang through the mic.

"Lee, while I agree with you that Mister Diggory is being an ass, as you put it, that's no reason to become so vulgar. Kindly apologise, if you would."

"Fine." Lee scowled. "I'm sorry that you're such a prat, Diggory!"

"Very good." The Headmaster sounded pleased as he retreated from the mic, and didn't seem to mind that Lee had basically done nothing but insult the Hufflepuff Captain again.

Professor McGonagall hid her face in her hands. "Please, someone remind me why I'm still working here." She mumbled, even as Jordan picked up the commentary again.

"That's Hufflepuff in – no, Gryffindor in possession. Angelina passes to Katie, Katie to Fred, who hits the Quaffle with his bat, and sends it spiralling straight towards the Hufflepuff goals – Fleet stops the Quaffle, and sends it towards Applebee, but Katie intercepts and scores! That's – hold on – eighty to thirty for Gryffindor! Hufflepuff is getting left behind!"

However, much like a badger, Hufflepuff fought back valiantly now that they were pushed into a corner. Gryffindor's steps ahead slowed to a crawl as the enemy team began fighting back harder and harder to stay in the competition long enough for Diggory to catch the Snitch and win them the Cup, but the Snitch proved itself quite elusive, and it was, for a long time, nowhere to be found.

Applebee had just scored when it happened. Harry and Angelina were passing the ball between each other, swerving in and out of the way of the enemy Chasers, when Oliver's panicked yell reached their ears. "HARRY! THE SNITCH!"

Quickly, Harry scanned the pitch, and found Diggory all the way at the other side of the pitch, near the Hufflepuff stands. He was diving and in front of him was a golden glint, which was flickering from side to side and definitely not his golden watch. Harry glanced at the scoreboard, and his heart nearly stopped. _180-110_. If Diggory caught the Snitch now, he'd have won Hufflepuff the Cup. And he'd never reach Diggory in time…

"Alicia!" Harry called, seeing only one solution. "On me! Now!" Alicia, who had just received the Quaffle from Angelina, didn't question it, and threw the Quaffle his way. The only reason any one of them would demand the Quaffle was because they had a plan.

Harry caught the Quaffle, and laid flat against his broom, shooting off as fast as he could towards the Hufflepuff goals. Diggory was nearly upon the Snitch now, and this, while incredibly stupid, was the only thing that would still give them the victory.

"What's he doing?" Lee's confused voice rang through the pitch. "Oh – no, Harry, don't, you bloody idiot!"

Harry wasn't listening, however, and curled himself into a small, tight ball as he shot straight at Fleet, who was guarding one of the goals. With a surprised curse, Fleet moved aside, not willing to get impaled on the tip of Harry's Firebolt, and Harry tried to make himself smaller, a tiny ball that would fit through the small Quidditch goals.

The idea of a Kamikaze, as the move was called, originated from when dunking wasn't a thing yet. The idea was that you shot off at the enemy Keeper as fast as you could, and tried to fit through the goal with the Quaffle. Considering that the goal was made to be two Quaffles wide and high, it was understandable why it was nearly banned. Ultimately, it wasn't, because nobody was ever crazy enough to use it anyways. Nobody, that is, until Harry came along.

It nearly went wrong. Harry felt the tips of his hair brush the top of the ring, and his toe would have a bruise for weeks as it caught the edge of the – thankfully padded – bottom. The crowd gasped loudly, and Lee and Professor McGonagall both cursed into the mic, but Harry didn't notice, because all that reached his ears was Madam Hooch's whistle, and his own doubts on whether his goal was within the time. Even the scoreboard didn't know what to do, as it let out a single, confused Ding, almost like a question. The lion and badger on Snape's banner stilled, sitting patiently for the first time in the match as they waited for the verdict.

"…Hold on, people." Lee sounded just as confused as the rest of them. "We need to discuss for a minute. Did anyone actually see what happened?" His voice moved further away from the mic, and though everyone could still hear it, it wasn't nearly as clear as before. "I mean, Harry pulled a Kamikaze and Diggory caught the Snitch, I know that much, but –" He quieted, apparently listening to other people in the commentator's box. Harry pulled up alongside Fred and George, around halfway along the field, who both glanced at him, and their lips quirked upwards briefly before their attention was drawn to Lee again.

"…Really?" Lee's voice sounded confused. "But, I thought –" Someone else spoke, too far away for the crowd to be able to discern what he was saying. "Oh. Oh. Oh!" Lee's grin was audible as he turned back to the mic, and Harry waited with bated breath, waiting to hear Lee say that they'd won, that Diggory had been too late –

But Lee turned away from the mic again, and Harry sagged on his broom. "I hate to do this, but I'll need to see it for myself. Rules, and all that annoying nonsense." It was quiet for a second. "Thanks. Let me see… Yup, it's fine. Alright!" Lee turned back to the mic, and Harry glanced at Fred and George, who were both just as tense as he was.

"It was, of course, quite difficult to discern who won, and we may never have figured it out without the guests that are here today." Lee announced. "I – er – _inspected_ the evidence, because I really didn't just pretend that I did to get it over with," Harry, Fred, and George snorted in unison, "and came to a conclusion. For those unaware, Harry's move was, in fact, perfectly legal, and would bump Gryffindor five points above Hufflepuff in the general rankings, giving them the cup.

"So, it is hereby my pleasure to announce that, after a losing streak of more than half a decade, the win goes to –" Lee paused for a second, letting the anticipation build up – "GRYFFINDOR!"

There was a single second of brief, disbelieving silence. Then, the stadium exploded into noise. Fred and George both pulled Harry into a tight hug, making him feel like his ribs were about to crack as they laughed, and it was only a brief second before the rest of the team joined them, laughing just as hard. Oliver was crying, babbling something along the lines of "We did it!" over and over, and Harry himself felt like Black himself could come and crash the party right then, and he wouldn't even care. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, whatever their previous allegiance might have been, were all clapping and roaring loudly, and even Hufflepuff joined in, too ecstatic about the amazing game to care that they had lost. Slytherin was, of course, booing, but couldn't be heard over the rest of the crowd and the roaring of Snape's lion as it completely tore apart the badger it was fighting.

The team slowly lowered itself to the ground, though how they managed, Harry would never be able to recall, where a massive group of Gryffindor supporters were already waiting for them, ready to party to all hells and back. But right in front of them stood a tall man, clad in a massive bright blue trenchcoat and a huge, almost sombrero-size grey felt hat, that was smiling down at Harry and Oliver.

"A very, very fine afternoon to the both of you gentlemen," He said, "and allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your win. I am Eddard Greengrass, the scout for Puddlemere United's Under Eighteen team, and should you be willing, I do believe that we have found ourselves a new Keeper and Seeker."

* * *

**_No, Harry isn't going to be dark/a necromancer/demon spawn/Voldemort's son/a changeling/succubus/incubus/secretly Slytherin's heir with complete control over the Deathly Hallows, completely overpowered Parselmagic, three billion Animagus forms, the ability to speak with animals, with a Basilisk, three time-travelling space-bending Phoenixes, two extinct Dragons, and a herd of special black Unicorns as familiars by fourth year/whatever else anyone can come up with. _**

**_Instead, his Patronus has a very simple and, in my opinion, a rather obvious reason that's in turn got to do with Hermione. All I'm going to reveal now is that Magic works in mysterious ways, and no-one really knows what path it'll take next._**

**_Channeling my inner Dumbledore, for the win!_**

**_And in my Quidditch, dunking is worth five points. Why? Because why else would scoring be worth ten points, and the Snitch a hundred-and-fifty? They could've just as easily made a goal be worth one point, and the Snitch fifteen._**

**_Oh, and by the way, shoutout to Vegasman59 for being over sixty years old and still reading Fanfiction ^^ _****That's****_ what I call a true fan._**

**_-The Baron_**


	15. Part 3 - Episode 4

.

**Part 3: A Cup of Coffee**

**Episode IV**

Harry had known, of course, that Hermione would be mad at him for pulling a Kamikaze – maybe she'd get angry for a bit, call him an idiot, and it'd all blow over – but it wasn't until he found her waiting in the common room with red eyes and puffy cheeks the morning after the incredible we-won-the-cup party that he realised just how mad she actually was.

"You don't get it, do you?" She asked as soon as she saw him, heedless of the other people in the room, looking quite miserable. Harry wasn't given the chance to respond. "You risked your life. You already did, flying on thin sticks a few hundred feet up in the air –"

"There are protective spells to prevent people from falling –" Harry tried telling her, but merely got a glare in response.

"_Let me finish._" She said rather coldly, and Harry gulped. "If it wasn't for your Metamorphmagus powers – if it wasn't for your lucky shot at unlocking them, for your instinctual knowledge that you wouldn't fit through the goal – then you would have died. Your skull would've been fractured, or smashed in with your brain turned to mush, or you could've even been decapitated by the steel beam up top.

"You very nearly died, Harry." Hermione reiterated, glaring. "For a game. And you didn't even care enough to seek out your girlfriend after." Harry was nearly gaping – both at his own idiocy and Hermione's immense anger – when she turned around, and began stalking away, to the Fat Lady's portrait. "Don't bother coming over to me again, unless you're ready to apologise, and ready to do it well. For right now, we're over, Harry."

The entire common room was silent, and Harry was left standing there, staring stupefied at the portrait his – apparently ex- – girlfriend had disappeared through.

"Damn." Lee blinked. "You done fucked up good, Harry."

Harry's answering glare would've made a rock hobble away in fright.

Oo0oO

If the night before had been Harry's arguably best evening ever, that morning was the worst since Vernon tried to dump him in London's sewers and leave him behind, until someone had found him stumbling around and brought him back to his uncle. Only this time, there was nobody to find him stumbling around, ready to bring him straight back to Hermione, because frankly – even though Harry didn't really want to admit it – it was his fault, his problem, his (ex?) girlfriend, and only he could do anything about it.

That was not to say that people didn't try to be helpful, when they saw Harry sitting miserably at the Gryffindor table, staring with a frown at the spot Hermione had sat the day before, and to where she was sitting now, with Roxanne and the other first-years at the end of the table. Fred and George turned the entire Slytherin table save for Malfoy into chickens proclaiming their love for their precious Draco-poo, Neville tried to give some advice, stuttering all the while, and Ginny was trying to comfort him, though it wasn't really working. He appreciated everything all the same, however, even Ron's half-hearted upbeat proclamation that 'there was still hope, mate – plenty of fish in the sea, after all!' accompanied with an awkward little laugh that showed precisely how much he believed in what he'd said.

…True enough, perhaps Harry didn't appreciate that as much as the others' attempts, but it was the thought that counted.

Slowly, a week crawled by, and Hermione gave him nothing but the cold shoulder all the while. It was like she'd forgotten he even existed. Puddlemere's letter of their new training schedule on Friday was like an extra kick in the nuts when he was already down on the ground, and he'd almost wrote back that he didn't want to be a part of the team anymore when Oliver enthusiastically came over to show his and he realised that it would be a rather idiotic and brash thing to do.

Ultimately, it was Hagrid, surprisingly enough, that proved to be the most helpful in the matter. Harry and Ron had been drinking tea in his hut when Harry had breached the topic of his recent not-quite breakup, which, likely because of his mysterious benefactor, had yet to make the papers, and Hagrid frowned.

"Why haven' yeh gone over ter her already, then?"

"Well –" Harry fumbled, not quite prepared for a comment from such an unexpected corner, "I – it's – like – it's – it's not that simple, okay?" He said eventually, sinking into his chair. "I doubt that Hermione has any wish to see me right now, after what I did to her –"

Hagrid looked amused. "If tha's teh way yeh think, 'Arry, I'm no' surprised she's decided ter take a break from yer relationship." Both Ron and Harry looked confused, and Hagrid took a sip from his tea. "Alrigh' – Ron, yer no' still in a relationship with Miss Brown, are yeh?"

"I'm not." Ron shook his head, unsure of where Hagrid was going with this. "We broke up only a few weeks after we got together."

"Well," Hagrid stroked his beard pensively, "Imagine yeh're still in a relationship with her. Everythin's good, bu' then yeh find her chatting up another guy in teh Three Broomsticks. You reac' teh same way Hermione did – which, if I may add, was quite appropria'e, considering teh situation – an' yeh sittin' in teh common room a week later. Would yeh prefer Lavender to remain over with her group o' friends, or tha' she come over and apologise for wha' she di'?"

"I'd prefer her to come over, of course." Ron answered immediately. "More snogging for me. What does that have to do with this, though?"

"Wha' I'm saying, 'Arry, is tha' yeh can' expec' Hermione ter jus' have given up on yeh." Hagrid explained patiently. "If she di', yeh would've heard her saying yer relationship is over fer good, an' she wouldn't have told yeh ter apologise. Plus, she's been over here too, yeh know. She's been crying."

"I know, I know she has," Harry replied, frustrated, "But – I can't just waltz into the common room, say sorry, and everything will be all right! It doesn't work like that!"

Hagrid quirked a bushy eyebrow. "An' who ever told yeh tha', Harry? Nobody bu' yehself, I'd reckon."

Harry didn't have an answer.

Oo0oO

The exams started the very next week, and they probably couldn't have come at a worse time. With half of his mind busy with his problem with Hermione, and the other half worrying about how she was doing, he was barely paying any attention to the tests, and his half-assedness likely cost him a few marks – though he'd undoubtedly still manage the average Acceptable needed to advance to the next year, even if his melted cauldron in Potions brought it down with a big, honking T – but he didn't care about that.

Really, Hagrid's advice had been quite sound, and Harry had, even though he felt horrible even thinking it, been quite happy to hear that Hermione had been crying, which he actually hadn't known. Because it meant that she hadn't, like he had thought, given up on him yet. But even then, she'd told him quite explicitly that she wouldn't just accept any apology, and Harry agreed with her – what he'd done was incredibly stupid, even if it landed him a spot in Puddlemere. However, it didn't really matter what he thought – he was still going to have to apologise properly.

The problem laid in how. And Harry didn't have a clue.

Oo0oO

It was the day after the exams, and Harry still hadn't done anything about his fight with Hermione. The only time in two weeks that they'd spoken was when Snape was feeling particularly vindictive and decided to pair them up in the last potions class, and even then, no more than five words had been said during the entire two periods.

Harry felt horrible about leaving her hanging like he did – because, from the way Hagrid had described her when she came over to his hut, she still felt the same way about him as he felt about her – but he just didn't know what to do. She'd probably just walk away, or even slap him, if he just came over with a sorry 'sorry' as his only excuse.

Hagrid was talking to someone when they approached his hut, though neither Harry or Ron could make out what they were saying. With a glance at Ron, who was admiring the Hippogriff that was sleeping in the pumpkin patch, Harry knocked on the heavy wooden door, which swung open barely a second later.

Hagrid blinked in surprise upon seeing them standing there, before grinning widely. "Ah! It's good to see yeh here when yeh are. This entire business can finally be over. Come in, come in."

With a curious eyebrow, Harry stepped into Hagrid's hut, and looked around for the other person – only to meet Hermione's wide –_ shining, beautiful, perfect dark hazel _– eyes, just as she was about to take a sip from her tea.

_Well._ Harry couldn't help but think. _This is awkward._

Ron came in just after Harry, completely oblivious to the sudden tension in the room. "Morning, Hagrid! Oh, Hermione, are you here too? Haven't seen you around in the last few weeks, how've you been?" Ron slid into the seat next to her, looking quite comfortable. Harry frowned at him, and Ron blinked. "What? What'd I do?"

Harry was about to reply, but Hagrid chose that moment to push him into the seat on the other side of Hermione. "There yeh go." Hagrid grinned. "Now, I'll make some tea fer yeh two, an' yeh can sor' yerselves out. Jus' apologise, and it'll all be fine."

Hermione and Harry both blinked, and they stared as Hagrid moved away to boil some more water, seemingly oblivious to the fact that things weren't going to be over so easily. They both let out an incredulous chuckle, but shut up once they realised the other was laughing as well, bathing the room into awkward silence again.

A few minutes later, Hagrid returned to them with a pot full of boiling water. "Righ'. Yeh've go' tha', an' – wha' tea do yeh wan'?"

"Elderberry's fine, Hagrid." Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

"Grey, of course." Ron grinned. "With plenty of sugar."

"Comin' righ' up!" Hagrid shuffled over to his cabinets, pulling two jars with him. "Tha's the tea…" Reaching over, he scooped up the massive sugar jar from the window still, and dumped it on the table, which rattled from the heavy weight. The pot let out a squeak in surprise.

Everyone blinked. "Hagrid?" Hermione asked uncertainly, earlier tension forgotten. "Is your pot supposed to squeal like a mouse?"

"Well, no' really." Hagrid scratched his beard. "I mean, there was this one po' tha' changed colour every few hours, bu' –"

Ron ripped the lid off, and peered inside curiously. "It's a rat! No – wait – it's Scabbers!" Ron yelled, delighted, and sat back upright, pulling his long-lost rat with him. "Why've you been holed up in here? How come you're alive anyway? Didn't Crookshanks eat you?"

"Well, from the smell, I'd say that Crookshanks simply swallowed Scabbers in one go and shat him back out later." Harry mumbled, wrinkling his nose. Despite herself, Hermione snorted, but went deathly quiet immediately after, when Harry stared at her in surprise.

"He can' have been in here fer long, I had some sugar jus' yesterday." Hagrid frowned, before he shrugged. "Doesn' really ma'er, I suppose. Though it does sorta explain why my sugar was brown…"

Everyone retched. Hagrid didn't notice.

Oo0oO

"Dammit, Ron!" Harry cursed, trying to catch up to his idiotic friend. "Pockets are invented for a reason!"

Barely half a minute after leaving Hagrid's hut a little after dusk, Scabbers had already escaped again, and like a big, red, fluffy fly that wouldn't leave its prey alone, Crookshanks had appeared, chasing after the rat almost as soon as it touched the ground. Hermione couldn't get him to give up on his chase, either, no matter what she tried – even an Accio only yielded temporary results, damn his Kneazle blood – and Ron had just gone full-out brute force, trying to tear the frenzied Kneazle away from his pet and grab Scabbers at the same time.

"Get away from him, you bloody menace – stop that – dammit, get away – Scabbers, get over here –"

Ron, Scabbers, and Crookshanks had already gone back out of the part of the Forbidden Forest they'd escaped into; there was a loud thud, and Harry and Hermione, who had just broken through the edge of the trees, were barely able to stop themselves from sprawling over Ron, who had just managed to snag Scabbers and was lying on the ground, trying to bat Crookshanks away from his hands.

"Gotcha! Get off, you stinking cat –"

But just as Ron was getting up, Hermione having taken Crookshanks' hissing and scratching self off of Ron's bleeding hands mere seconds earlier, there was a loud bark, and the thumping of heavy feet against the forest floor; then, a gigantic black hound was pouncing upon them, and Harry barely had time to recognise its familiar glowing, red, malicious eyes – the eyes of a murderer – before he and Ron were bowled over, falling down on the ground with a painful smack.

He felt as if the attack, for that was what it had been, had crushed his chest and flattened his windpipe. It was incredibly difficult to breathe – it was almost as if a thousand-pound weight had been placed upon his chest, and he was barely able to push himself upright; but then Black, who had apparently been dazed by his own attack, attacked again, knocking Harry aside to snap his jaws around Ron's leg, dragging him away as easily as Dumbledore could blast away a first-year Muggleborn in a duel.

Harry made to go after him, wand already out, but something struck him across the face, coming right out of the darkness, slashing him straight across the face. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he fell on his back, and a little away, he heard Hermione let out a shriek, likely having suffered the same fate as him, though hopefully with a little less horrible of a result. "Lumos Maxima!"

From Hermione's wand rose a giant ball of light, which hung in the air quite the ways up. The Whomping Willow, mere feet away – and as Harry and Hermione realised this, they scrambled away the fastest they could, so as to not get squished violently by one of its branches – was suddenly illuminated, showing its threatening 'arms' as they swung around threateningly, and the red-eyed grim that was dragging a screaming Ron feet-first into an alcove below the tree.

Helplessly, Harry was only able to watch as his best friend slowly disappeared down the hole. The Whomping Willow was preventing them from advancing, and by the time they got someone to help or finally got through, Black would already be too far into whatever hole he'd disappeared into for Harry to grab Ron and make a run for it. He couldn't use magic, either; should he summon Ron to him, the teeth would likely rip Ron's leg off, and the Whomping Willow would hit some vital organs along the way back, if it didn't squish him altogether. Black would undoubtedly have some form of protection against being summoned, or the Aurors would have gotten him a long time ago.

Harry winced when a loud crack, followed by a bloodcurdling scream cut the air like an overpowered Reducto; Ron's free leg, which he'd hooked around a root in an effort to get Black to stop pulling him, had snapped cleanly in two, and was now dangling uselessly as it disappeared into the abyss below the Whomping Willow.

"Oh god…" Hermione looked near tears, and Harry finally brought his wand out, flicking it at Hermione's nose, which was bent rather ungracefully.

"Episkey!" With a crack, a wince, and a curse, Hermione's nose, which had been broken by the Whomping Willow, was straightened out again.

"Thank you, Harry." She gasped, massaging newly straightened bridge of her nose with the hand that was still holding her wand, the other busy with trying to keep Crookshanks from escaping. "But Ron's not going to get saved by something like that."

"I know." Harry scowled at the Whomping Willow. "Call me a Neanderthal, but the best thing I can think of is casting billions of Reductos until the tree falls over, but I doubt Dumbledore's going to be happy with that."

Hermione snorted, but blinked when Crookshanks suddenly wormed himself from her arms. "What – Crookshanks! No!" The Kneazle suddenly darted through the trashing branches, miraculously not getting hit once, until he reached the bottom of the tree, where he put his paw on a knot of roots. At once, the entire tree stilled, going back to its usual passive upright position within seconds.

Both Harry and Hermione blinked.

"How'd he know how to do that?" Harry asked incredulously, but Hermione looked just as lost as him.

"No idea." She glanced around. "We should go, though, before someone comes to investigate the noise, or Crookshanks decides he doesn't want to wait any longer and leaves."

"Right." Harry reached out to grab her hand and pull her along, but stopped halfway there, suddenly remembering that Hermione wouldn't want that until he apologised, and even then, it was a question.

He swallowed, pushing the thought aside for now. "Let's go."

Oo0oO

They moved through the tunnel as fast as they could; Harry had shrunk himself to pre-first-year size, and was running easily, but Hermione was bent almost double, barely able to avoid some of the low-hanging roots and rocks. Crookshanks was running ahead, barely visible in the dim light of Harry's Lumos, constantly turning small little corners into the next part of the monstrous corridor.

And then, after what felt like half an hour, the tunnel finally began to rise; it turned, rose up to a small set of wooden steps reminiscent of the stone ones below Honeydukes, and became a small trapdoor where Crookshanks was waiting for someone to open the latch.

Harry did, raising himself to normal height along the way, and then he and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, as Crookshanks disappeared upstairs with a small creak from the stairs. Hermione (who was popping her back to unlock it after spending more than ten minutes bent over and providing a very alluring sight for Harry along the way, no matter how he tried to stop his annoying teenage mind from ignoring the fact that his best friend had likely been killed by a mass-murderer) sighed and flicked her wand to cast some extra light around the room.

The room was positively ancient, and looked like it hadn't been cleaned in decades. Beige wallpaper was peeling from the walls, there were stains and scratch marks all over the floor and walls, and even some on the roof, and every piece of furniture was broken as though someone had warded the walls against explosions and let loose all their pent-up anger. The windows were all boarded up, preventing what little light the moon showed from filtering through into the room.

Harry glanced to Hermione, who suddenly looked terrified, but nodded. He pulled himself out of the hole, staring around. The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood open, leading to a small shadowy hall, where a clearly fragile staircase stood, ready to collapse when they made their way upstairs.

Hermione suddenly hugged Harry's arm to her chest, seemingly having temporarily forgotten about their fight. Her wide eyes were travelling around the boarded windows.

"Harry," She whispered, not even blinking. "I think we're in the Shrieking Shack."

Harry looked around. His eyes fell on a wooden chair near them. Large chunks had been torn out of it; one of the legs had been ripped off entirely.

"Well, whatever's in here besides Black, it can't be Ghosts. That's something, at least." He said brightly.

At that moment, there was a creak overhead. Something had moved upstairs. Harry blew out a breath and started to march down the hallway, Hermione right behind him. "Harry! What are you doing?!" She whispered furiously, and Harry responded without turning around.

"You know those horror movies? In there, the main character always waits until something comes at them, and then they either die or miraculously escape with major injuries. I'm turning that around."

Together as one, they moved up the stairs and onto a dark landing, lit only by their wands. Two of the three doors were closed and completely dark, but the third was ajar, allowing a tiny strip of light to shine through. Harry exchanged a look with his girlfriend, and nodded to her, silently extinguishing his wand along the way.*

Wand held tightly before him, a Stupefy on his lips, Harry kicked the door wide open –

On a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings lay Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them; on the floor beside him, clutching his leg, which stuck out at a strange angle, sat Ron, clutching his leg as his head snapped up to face the newcomers; Scabbers was squirming in his pocket, clearly trying to escape –

– and the door hit the wall, slamming right back to Harry and hitting him in the face with an excruciatingly painful CRASH!

Harry groaned as he fell back, fighting to keep his eyes open, and Hermione, who was right behind him, was forced to catch him, lest he smack his head on the floor and knock himself out; Ron was gaping at them with a terrified and incredulous face, and there was loud, hoarse laughter coming from the corner behind the door, which had sprung open slightly again in rebound from Harry's nose.

After an Episkey to heal his nose, Harry turned and made a second attempt at entering the room; he stormed inside, this time making sure that the door wasn't going to smack him in the face, and ran over to Ron to take a look at his leg.

"Who are you? And where's the dog?"

Hermione, who clearly hadn't been paying attention to the Prophet's wanted page, pointed her wand at Black, and looked to be about to blast him apart. Black grinned, and with a negligent flick of his – Ron's – wand, Harry and Hermione's wands came flying towards him.

"Who am I?" Black chuckled. "I am the wooer of women, the legend that perfected the art of getting into a chick's pants, the dashing vigilante dashing all across Britain in a vain effort to escape from the many girls wanting to cop a feel of the most majestic hound in all of Europe; I am Sirius Black, Milady, and I do hope that you like your coffee like you like your men, because if Black's too bitter for you, I highly doubt we're going to get along." The clearly insane man bowed surprisingly elegantly, showing his pureblood ancestry. Hermione scowled, and shuffled backwards to Harry, who was glaring at Black.

"He's the dog, Hermione." Harry bit out. "An Animagus. Remember what I told you about Halloween?"

Hermione scowled, and crouched to take a look at Ron's leg. "Great. So now, we're locked up in a shack nobody will touch with a mass-murderer that will be able to torture us to his heart's content without anyone thinking it anything other than a reinforcement of their idiotic superstitions. What a delightful way to round off my Saturday."

Black barked a laugh, which turned into a grin after a brief second. "Sarcastic! I like that. Great choice, Harry." Harry's scowl deepened. "Nice of you to come and help out your friend, by the way. It'll make everything a lot easier. Your father would've done the same, you know? James even saved the life of someone he didn't give a crap about. He was nice." Black frowned. "It was really too bad of him that he had to die when he did."

Harry growled, and shot forwards, ready to smash him through the wall of space-time and blast him into a new universe. Hermione and Ron, despite his mangled leg, quickly stood up to prevent him from getting ripped apart; iron chains shot out of Ron's wand, however, and bound Harry to one of the walls. "Sorry 'bout that." Black seemed genuinely sorry, but nobody believed it for a second. "That was rather insensitive of me." He frowned at Ron. "Sit down. You'll only damage your mangled leg even further."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Harry spat from his place against the wall. Black rolled his eyes, and pointed his wand at Ron when he completely ignored what Black had said.

"Somnus – Arresto Momentum." Black swished his wand, and Ron fell down, snoring loudly. Black wrinkled his nose. "Silencio." Ron became silent.

"Ron!" Harry yelled in alarm, before glaring at Black. In his bound state, he switched to insulting him, just because he couldn't do anything else. "Black! You traitorous asshole! Brown-noser! You probably licked the toe-rash out of Mouldy-shorts' pants to get into his little club, didn't you?! Are you going to –"

"Silencio." Harry's mouth kept moving, insulting Black, but no sounds came out. Black quickly bound and silenced Hermione and bound and woke Ron, too, before either of them could start insulting him, before setting them in chairs and sitting opposite of them at the small table.

"Now that I have your attention…" Black grinned. "Allow me to form an unbreakable vow with one of you. Extend your hand, Harry." Black loosened one of the ropes, and Harry did extend his hand, in an attempt to punch Black. Black rolled his eyes, and gripped Harry's hand tightly. Strings of golden magic began to swirl around their hands, and despite whatever he tried, Harry found that he couldn't pull his hand away.

"An unbreakable vow is, despite the name, quite breakable." Black explained. "A single vow consists of three individual promises, but for now, I'll only need one; I, Sirius Orion Black, swear that whatever I say in the following few minutes will, as far as I know, be true." Harry and Black's hands flashed, and Black grinned at them. "Now, if I lie, I'll lose my magic, and likely die." Harry and Ron automatically turned to Hermione for confirmation, who nodded, looking quite surprised that Black was willing to go that far.

Black grinned. "Now, for the other two… I swear never to willingly wear any underwear made from green jelly and the skull of a pig," Despite the situation, everyone wrinkled their noses in disgust as their hands flashed again, "and I swear that… oh, I know!" He sniggered. "I swear that I'll never willingly raise my father from the dead with the intention to use him as an actor for porn." In the back of his mind, Harry wondered how twisted Azkaban really was, to turn people into lunatics as idiotic as Black.

"Now," He grinned, "I shall explain something. Questions afterwards!"

**Enter Sirius' history. If you're interested, read it, but it's basically his entire history. I put it in here for the sake of completion, but you can easily skip it to the next bold message.  
I feel that I should note that I copied and pasted this from the previous version of this story with only minimal changes, so the quality is quite a bit worse than the rest of the chapter, IMO.  
But I'm a perfectionist, so feel free to ignore that if you don't think so.**

"Do you know about the Fidelius charm and how it works? Just nod if yes." All three shook their heads, figuring they could stall Black until someone came. Black scowled. "Well, damn. It's – er – a ritual of sorts, I suppose, where you hide a secret inside someone's soul. Nobody else will be able to divulge it, or even know of it. The only people that will know are the people the so-called Secret Keeper tells. Makes sense?" Everyone shook their heads, but Black seemed to catch on, and frowned at them.

"Well, screw you, then. The short story is, I wasn't the Secret Keeper. Peter Pettigrew was." Everyone blinked, Hermione and Ron because they still didn't have a clue what Black was talking about, and Harry due to sheer astonishment that Black was going to try and pull something like that.

"Now you have to understand something; it was a time of war. Nobody trusted anyone. We knew there was a spy within the Light, close to the higher-ups, but we didn't know who. We – that is, Professor Dumbledore, Lily, James, and I – came to the conclusion that I was to be the Secret Keeper to keep them protected. Then, a few days later, I had an epiphany. One I thought would help save Lily and James.

"I went to Lily and James, and I told them my plan. I was the obvious choice for the position of Secret Keeper; James' best man at his wedding, been friends since first year, I even lived with his parents since I became sixteen and was kicked out by my parents, etcetera. Therefore, nobody would suspect snivelling, almost-squib, untalented Pettigrew.

"We didn't tell anyone; not Dumbledore, not Remus – Remus Lupin, you know him? Good, you do – not even James' parents." Black coughed under the trio's incredulous looks. "I know, I know, it might seem idiotic now, but it was war, and if they were captured, we didn't want to risk getting that information tortured out of them." He shrugged. "Anyway, we did the switch, and a few days later, on Halloween, Death comes knocking. Or rather, Voldemort. He attacked, killed Lily and James, Harry survived, and all that jazz.

"I was devastated, of course. Two of my best friends died, the third caused it, and fourth thought I did it. I was mad, mad at myself for suggesting the switch, mad at Lily and James for not thinking that the plan of not telling anyone was a horrible one, but mostly mad at Pettigrew. So I went after him.

"I found him two days later in Muggle London; I cornered him, but before I could do anything, he shouted out something like "How could you, Sirius! James and Lily! You betrayed them!" – I can't quite remember, I was kinda out of it – cut off his finger, transformed into his Animagus form, and escaped into the sewers."

Black chuckled again when their faces didn't change. "Yes, I know, still farfetched, but give me a minute. Did you know Remus is a werewolf?" Ron and Harry shook their heads, but Hermione nodded. Everyone looked at her in surprise, before turning back to the matter at hand.

"Well, that certainly makes things easier to believe. We figured out he was in our second year. Me, Pettigrew, and James learned to become Animagi – because werewolves can't infect animals, or Animagi, so we would be able to keep him company on the full moon. I was a grim, as you've all seen, James a deer, and Pettigrew a rat. We each had our names; I was Padfoot, James Prongs, Pettigrew Wormtail, and Remus Moony." Harry blinked, recognising the names from the Marauders' map.

"The Minister for Magic visits Azkaban yearly, and every year he brings the Daily Prophet with him; I always ask for it, to catch up a bit and do the crossword puzzle. It gives me something to do. In any case, I saw the Weasleys on the front page, on their trip to Egypt. And, on the shoulder of Ron, sat the rat himself. Peter Pettigrew."

**And here we go, history lesson over. **

Black walked around to stand next to a gaping Ron, and took a struggling Scabbers out of his pocket. "Isn't that right, Peter? Or should I say, Wormtail? You filthy _rat!_"

He spat out the last word, and threw the rat on the floor, quickly shooting a non-verbal bright silver spell from Ron's wand, which caught the rat on his tail as he tried to scurry away –

But said tail disappeared and a man slowly formed, first the head, then limbs were sprouting, and barely a second after Scabbers had been scurrying across the floor, a man was standing where Scabbers had been, cringing away from the people in the room. Black vanished the ropes around the trio and threw Harry and Hermione their wands, keeping Ron's for himself, which they pointed at Pettigrew – or at least, Black and Hermione did, but Harry pointed it at Black. Both he and Black were about to speak, but Pettigrew interrupted before they could.

"S-Sirius…" He whimpered pitifully. "My old f-friend… It's so g-good to s-see you again, it r-really is…"

"SHUT UP!" Black roared, raising his wand to curse Pettigrew – but Harry clamped his hand around Black's wrist before he could, and glared at the ragged man.

"For the safety of everyone here – and the sake of returning items where they belong – you should give the wand back to Ron." Harry frowned. "I can't guarantee your safety when you start cursing anyone here, both because you might collapse the house on accident and because I might try to stop you from killing everyone. I've brushed up on offensive spells in the past few months, and while I might not be able to beat you in a duel even at your weakened state right now, I'll happily blow a chunk of the Shack away to let you fall and break your neck. Not to mention that physically, I'm many times stronger than you, and will probably be able to snap you like a twig."

Black scowled, before chucking the wand over to Ron with a flick of his wrist. "Fine. Party pooper. Kill the damn traitor yourself, if you have to. Just leave the body for Padfoot to defecate over."

"Harry," Pettigrew gasped pitifully, crawling over to beg at Harry's feet, "Do you really believe him? I held you when you were a baby… So little, so cute you were then… He tried to kill me, Harry – you have to believe me –"

Harry frowned. "I'd like to clear up one or two little matters with you, Wormtail, if you'd be so –"

"Don't you see? He's come to try and kill me again!" Peter interrupted shrilly, completely delirious, pointing his middle finger at Black, who snorted in disgust, and flipped him the bird right back. "He killed Lily and James and now he's going to kill me too! You've got to help me, Harry, please…"

"No one's going to die, Wormtail." Harry rolled his eyes, and kicked the foot Wormtail was hanging on to to get the pitiful rat away. "It's either Black or you that's going back to Azkaban. Nothing else is going to happen – except maybe a Dementor's kiss to the guilty. We still have a few things left to sort out –"

"Sort out?" Squealed Pettigrew, looking wildly about him again. "I knew he'd come after me! I knew he'd be back for me! I've been waiting for this for twelve years!"

"You knew he was going to break out of Azkaban?" Hermione spoke up with narrowed eyes. "When nobody has ever done it before?"

"He's got dark powers the rest of us can only dream of!" Pettigrew shouted shrilly. "How else did he get out of there? The Dark Lord must've taught him a few tricks!"

Black barked a laugh. "What, are you serious? Voldemort, teach me tricks?" Pettigrew flinched as if struck. "What, scared to hear your old master's name?" Black grinned. "I don't blame you, Peter. His lot aren't very happy with you, are they? Voldemort! Voldemort! Voldemort!"

"Stop it, Black." Harry scowled; Ron looked ready to faint. "Not everyone here likes to hear that name."

"That's the point!" Black laughed, but quieted when he saw Ron's pale face. "Oh. Right." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Alright, then. Sorry, whatever-your-first-name-is Weasley."

"Good – Harry – you know, right? Know that I'm innocent?" Pettigrew pleaded, his breathing faster than ever. His whole face was shining with sweat now, and Harry quickly cast an air freshening charm to counter the stink of sweat.

"Well, I don't know, Wormtail." Harry said doubtfully. "Your case is looking rather horrible right now."

"But Black has come to kill me!" Peter shrieked. "Don't you see! He wanted to do it, before you stopped him! You know I'm innocent, right? Right?" His pale face was sweating more than ever, and Harry had to cast another air-freshening charm to allow them to breathe.

"Of course he's come to kill you." Harry rolled his eyes. "That doesn't prove he's a mass-murderer, though. I mean, I'd like to kill the person that locked me unfairly into Azkaban, too, if it ever happened. Doesn't mean that I'd actually done the crime that supposedly put me there." Harry sighed at the snivelling rat. "I could claim that I hate to say this, but I really don't. You make an utterly and completely unconvincing case, Wormtail, and Sirius' unbreakable vow was a lot more believable than your snivelling. Stupefy! Incarcerus!"

Harry grinned, and looked up at a surprised Sirius. "Come on, let's go. I'm sure you know how to cast a Disillusionment Charm, right, Hermione?" Hermione nodded with a smile. "Right. You can make Sirius and Wormtail invisible, and they can stay that way until someone makes a vow not to get Sirius kissed before Wormtail's trial. Ron needs to get to the infirmary, and I'd rather not let Sirius alone with Pettigrew, if at all possible." Sirius grinned dangerously, and Harry shook his head. "Actually, make that not at all, even if impossible."

Sirius pouted. "Come on, Harry? Can't I at least get some crotch-shots in before they cart him off?"

"Do you seriously expect me to answer in your favour?"

"…Good point."

Oo0oO

*Knock, knock, knock – knock knock knock knock knock knock knock – knock knock!*

At a time way past curfew, nobody was still supposed to be out and about, save for the professors, who would just come in instead of knocking. And only a single student Madam Pomphrey knew could and would still be having to visit her at such a time.

"Come in, Mr. Potter." She sighed when, as she suspected, a disgruntled Potter walked in.

"How did you know it was me?" If Madam Pomphrey didn't know Harry as well as she did, she would've sworn that he was whining like a Malfoy with a hair out of line.

She snorted. "You're the only one that would still be up at this hour and in need of a visit to the infirmary." Madam Pomphrey walked over and, completely ignoring Hermione, who was standing behind Harry, began to lead him to his usual bed. "What have you done this time? I should – you know what?"

Madam Pomphrey flicked her wand at the bed on the far end of the Infirmary, where a plaque appeared, attaching itself to the bed with a soft clang. Harry had to squint to read it, but when he did, he became red-faced. "A bed with my name on it? Really?"

"Well, you've certainly been in here often enough." Madam Pomphrey and Ron snorted, and Hermione giggled.

"Poppy, it's not me this time. It's Ron." Poppy frowned and made her way over to the redhead, who, as she only just noticed, had a completely mangled leg. "He's got a broken leg."

"Yes, obviously." Madam Pomphrey rolled her eyes. "I've been a healer longer than you've been alive, Harry. I know a broken leg when I see one. Take a seat on your bed – Miss Granger, you join him – I'll put Mister Weasley's bed next to yours." She marched over and levitated Ron to the bed, despite his protests.

"And can you call the Headmaster as well?" Harry asked, hopping up on his bed. "It's kind of important. Like, Azkaban-class important. And tell him to call the Minister, as well."

Poppy nodded absent-mindedly, having been steadily numbed to Harry's strange experiences over the years, as she began waving her wand over Ron, who suddenly let out a sigh. "There, now it's numbed. I'll fire-call the Headmaster now."

They nodded and, when had she disappeared into her office, cast a Finite on Wormtail, causing him to become visible and fall onto the ground – not that they minded. "Sirius, levitate him onto a bed, if you please." Harry requested and, after a second, Wormtail floated upside down until he was quite high up over the bed, where he was dropped and fell with a loud and undoubtedly painful CLANG! Harry immediately cast a Stupefy again, to make sure that the rat was still out cold.

Right after he did, Poppy, Dumbledore, and Cornelius walked in. Harry smiled at them, even as their eyes grew wide at the sight of Pettigrew. "Hello, Headmaster, Cornelius." He said pleasantly. "Allow me to make some introductions. This is our esteemed mister Peter Pettigrew, murderer a guaranteed fourteen times over – two by proxy, though his master probably wouldn't see it that way – and winner of the not-so-posthumously-after-all posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class.

"Wormtail, you filthy rat," He continued happily, "these people are Cornelius, Headmaster Dumbledore, and Madam Pomphrey – though I doubt they really need to be introduced, because you clearly already know them, as – ahem – _stupefied_ as you are." Harry and Ron sniggered, as did a so-called empty spot in the corner of the room. Hermione slapped Harry over the head for his horrible pun, but couldn't bite back a grin.

Cornelius spluttered, Dumbledore frowned, and Poppy just stood there, gaping. "W-what? Preposterous! I demand you release him at once, Harry! This – this is –" He would've undoubtedly continued on, but Dumbledore held up his hand.

"Let's hear him out, Cornelius. I'm sure he has a reason. Am I right, my boy?" Dumbledore smiled at him, though it wasn't at all friendly, and the usual twinkle in his eyes was nowhere to be seen.

Harry nodded. "Sure, Headmaster. Could you give us a place to sit? The beds aren't too comfortable, I'm afraid."

"Certainly." Dumbledore nodded, flicking his wand to conjure a table and four chairs. "For your sake, Poppy, Mister Weasley, we'll leave away any form of silencing." Professor Dumbledore smiled plainly. "Miss Granger, if you'd join us? I'm certain you have quite a tale to tell."

Oo0oO

After a tiresome explanation that was elongated quite a bit by The Minister's unwillingness to accept that Wormtail was guilty, they managed to wrangle a vow from Dumbledore that would cause him to lose his magic, which even the Ministry didn't want, should any Dementor, on the Ministry's orders, direct or indirect, kiss Sirius before his trial; should the Ministry force Sirius to return to Azkaban before his trial; should the Ministry attack Sirius with bodily harm, either direct or indirect, before his trial, or; should the Ministry keep Sirius from healing. It wasn't a fool-proof vow, but it was good enough to serve their purposes.

Then, Sirius took off the cloak, making the others in the room gasp loudly. He chuckled. "Yes, I was here the entire time." A second of awkward silence passed, before – "Boo!"

Cornelius shrieked a girly squeal, and even Hermione couldn't hold back a wide grin at the sound.

"Yes, well, it's – er – nice to meet you, Mr. Black. I believe, and I'm guessing the rest agree with me..." He shot a look at Dumbledore and Poppy before continuing, "That you should all get a good night's sleep right now. I think it is a good idea for you, Mr. Black, to take a vial of Dreamless Sleep. Am I right? Poppy?"

Poppy nodded. "I will give you Dreamless Sleep and a bit of Anti-Cruciatus; it helps against Dementor after-effects as well. Besides that, nutrient potions, and good food, there's nothing else that can be done. It'll probably be a year or so before you're back to how you were before Azkaban, excluding, of course, any knowledge you might have forgotten, and your duelling skills, which no potion of mine will be able to help with."

Sirius nodded. "That's fine. Can someone get me something to sleep in, though?" He tugged at his undoubtedly uncomfortable muggle pants, which looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. "I was forced to filch these from a Muggle store, and they're not exactly comfortable to sleep in."

"I'm sure that can be arranged. Poppy?" The Headmaster prodded, and Poppy nodded.

"I have a couple of spare sleeping robes in my office. I'll go and grab them in a minute."

Dumbledore nodded, and rose from his conjured chair at the same time as Cornelius did. "I do believe that this is our cue to leave." He beamed around the room. "A pleasant further evening, everyone. I shall be accompanying Cornelius and Mister Pettigrew here to the Ministry Holding Cells, where Mister Pettigrew shall be spending a lovely night with a pair of Dementors." He smiled.

"Oh, and place some Animagus preventing stuff around him." Sirius interjected hastily. "He's a rat Animagus. I'm a dog, and James was a stag." Harry blinked at the new information. "We became Animagi in Hogwarts, so I suppose I deserved at least one month of Azkaban for that. I'm sure you can figure out why we became Animagi, Headmaster."

The Headmaster nodded almost as soon as Sirius had finished speaking, and, completely ignoring the spluttering Cornelius, started levitating Pettigrew out of the room. "Goodnight, everyone."

"Goodnight, Headmaster."

"Are you coming, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked from the doorway when the Minister didn't move, looking extremely lost, with eyes twinkling, and Cornelius tipped his hat hurriedly.

"Right. Yes. Quite. Very. Definitely. A pleasant evening, everyone." He said hastily, and harried himself out of the room, sounding as lost as he looked.

When Harry and Hermione didn't make any inclination to move out of the hospital wing even after Poppy had gone to grab Sirius' new robes, Madam Pomphrey looked them over once before sighing. "I guess you can stay here. Just be quiet. Mr. Black, here's your robes, and your potions are on the table." And then she was gone, just like Ron, if his snores were to be believed.

Harry quickly crawled under the covers of his marked bed, and was followed almost immediately by Hermione, who intertwined her legs with his. Harry blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione spoke up before he could. "You still need to apologise for what you did, but pillows don't talk, so don't." With a pout that Harry couldn't maintain over his grin, he wrapped an arm around his pseudo-girlfriend, and closed his eyes to sleep.

When Sirius – who had just taking his anti-Cruciatus potion – snickered, Harry opened one eye to shoot him a glare. Sirius held up his hands defensively. "What?" He quickly his dreamless sleep before Harry could give a retort and was out cold within a second.

Harry sighed before giving his pseudo-girlfriend a kiss on her forehead, well aware that her lips were still quite forbidden territory. "'Night, 'Mione." He risked, and was rewarded with a soft grumble.

"Hush, pillow."

Oo0oO

The week that led up to Sirius and Wormtail's trial was tense for Harry, Hermione, and Sirius. Ron cared as well, but he was busier eating and snogging his on-again girlfriend Lavender to really feel the effects. Wormtail was kept unconscious and under surveillance under all times.

Sirius was confined to the Infirmary, but always managed to sneak out and he would pop up during meal times in dog-form and be fed pieces of bacon together with Hedwig. Usually, he would be found within ten minutes and immediately be dragged back to the infirmary by an irate Poppy, to the general confusion of the rest of Hogwarts.

The day after the 'Black Incident', as it was referred to in the Prophet, was a Hogsmeade trip, so they took their minds off things by strolling through Hogsmeade, buying sweets, books, Butterbeer, and doing little useless stuff with Padfoot, as Sirius referred to his alternate form, who had managed to escape Madam Pomphrey's clutches for the day, purely to have fun.

When they returned to Hogwarts that evening, they were met by Remus, who was carrying a large case and his empty Grindylow tank to the carriages. "Moony?" Harry asked. "What are you doing?" Remus smiled at them.

"After hearing that Sirius got a trial, Severus – er – _accidentally_ let slip that I am a werewolf to the entire school." Everyone scowled, and Padfoot growled. Remus' smile nearly turned upside-down, only kept upright by his own all-around positivity. "I have no doubt that there will be howlers soon of protective parents that don't want me teaching here, so I took the short way and resigned."

"But –" The trio spluttered at the same time, feeling rather indignant for the werewolf, and Remus laughed.

"Goodbye, Harry, Hermione, Ron. It has been a real pleasure teaching you. I feel sure we'll meet again sometime, especially since Sirius here –" He ruffled Padfoot's hair, and Padfoot barked happily, "has given me a key to his house, which is where I'm going to live after I sort things out with my own house. Who knows, maybe you'll stay with us this summer."

He turned to the carriage and heaved himself inside, but turned around the last second. "I almost forgot." No-Longer-Professor Lupin said quickly, glancing at the front of the carriage, presumably to check the invisible forces weren't moving yet. "Your father, Padfoot, the rat, and I made maps of the school. Wormtail's got confiscated by Filch – it's gone, I checked – Padfoot's was dropped into water and got soaked, then turned to ash when he tried to dry it, and mine got borrowed by a classmate to be used as essay without asking and subsequently disappeared, but Sirius inherited Prongs' copy in James' will." He grinned. "You should check it out. The passwords should be lying around there on a scrap of paper."

And then Remus was sitting in the carriage, being pulled away by the invisible magic, not even giving Harry the time to answer that he'd found Moony's map. Like usual, really.

Oo0oO

Sirius and Wormtail's trial went by surprisingly quickly. Harry, Hermione, and Ron weren't allowed to come, as no minors were allowed in the courtrooms, but the Trial transcripts were printed in the Prophet.

In short, through use of Veritaserum, they had given Sirius a thousand Galleons for every year he was wrongfully imprisoned – unregistered Animagi get a month of low-security Azkaban, which was disregarded for the sake of simplicity – which made him a total of fifteen grand, which, when asked by the Prophet, Sirius swore a fake magical oath to spend in its full on hookers, alcohol, Muggle music, and perhaps a highly illegal enchanted flying bike for his godson and himself.

Wormtail had received a prison sentence of around a thousand and seven hundred years – Wizarding court counted a hundred years for every murdered Muggle and two-hundred-and-fifty for every murdered Wizard or Witch, the average life expectancy of both rounded up to figures of fifty for simplicity's sake – in addition to a lifetime for association with the Death Eaters. All of his possessions would be Sirius' immediately, which Sirius said he'd burn as soon as he got his hands on them, and his wand was for Sirius to do with whatever he pleased. Sirius' dangerous grin made it quite clear that nobody really wanted to find out what he'd actually do with it.

Lastly, and perhaps most surprisingly, Sirius had pushed for the custody of Harry. Dumbledore had been very leery, but had acquitted when he was allowed to cast extra wards over the property they would be staying at. This would force Harry to live with the Weasleys for a week, which nobody minded in the least.

Well, save for Ron, who'd have to share his room with Harry for as long as the other boy stayed with them, but he was ignored, pretty much like always.

"Ready to go, pup?" Sirius grinned from next to him staring out at the Hogwarts Express, and Harry grinned as well, taking his godfather's arm with a nod.

"Let's go." And they went.

Oo0oO

"Hermione?"

"Hmm? What is it, Harry?"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For what I pulled during the Quidditch Match. I shouldn't have."

"Hmm."

"I shouldn't have waited so long to apologise, either."

"You shouldn't have."

"I won't pull stunts like that again. I promise."

"You won't. I know. I knew already, really."

"What – seriously? Doesn't that make this entire apology pointless?"

"Not really. I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Oh. So – we're good?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"We're not just good, we're amazing."

"…Alright. That's even better, I suppose."

"…Come here, Harry."

"Why?"

"Because your girlfriend needs a snog, and you're going to provide."

**– ****Year 3: The End –**

* * *

**_A/N: A few final notes on the chapter before we move on to THE NEXT YEAR (hypu hypu hypu):_**

**_Not every relationship is smooth sailing, and certainly not a teenage one. And considering that Harry practically tried to commit suicide over a game – it isn't called Kamikaze for nothing – I'd say that Hermione is pretty righteous in her anger. Plus, she's already stressed out over the exams, which happen only half a month after the final Quidditch Match, so this was probably the sledgehammer that broke the camel's back._**

**_And I'm sorry about the IMO rather disappointing Shrieking Shack scene. I tried all sorts of stuff, but nothing really worked, so I was forced to incorporate a lot of stuff from canon, some even directly from the book. And if you're wondering, Remus didn't show because he didn't have the Map to glean the location of Sirius off of, and Snape didn't come because I think he learned of their location from the Map, when he went to deliver Remus his Wolfsbane? It was something like that, I think. Don't quote me on it, though._**

**_BUT REGARDLESS, ON TO YEAR FOUR! HUZZAH!_**

**_-The Baron_**


	16. Part 4 - Episode 1

.

**Part 4: Bestiality**

**Episode I**

_"__Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it."  
-Mart Twain, Notebook, 1902_

_"__Come to me, Nagini.__" Harry hissed, the Parseltongue slipping out as easily as breathing as he stretched out a small, gaunt, claw-like hand for his snake to reach. Ever his faithful pet, Nagini complied, laying her head upon his hand for him to do with as he wished. "__Get my ssservant for me, my lovely__." He purred, raking one long, bony finger over her skull. "__His master wishes him to come, and come, he shall. He ssshould be in the dining room, with his –__" Harry felt his face twist into a sneer as he spat, "_family_. He needs to hand me sssomething.__"_

_Obediently, Nagini slithered away, out of the ajar door and into the dark hallway, out of sight. With a sigh, Harry folded his hands in front of him, only to chuckle at the sudden intrusion he felt._

_"__Ah, Mr. Potter." Harry – no, Voldemort slipped out of Parseltongue to greet him, sounding quite delighted. "Decided to join me, have you?"_

_"__Of course not." Harry scoffed before he could help himself – though how he was able to talk in the first place, considering that it was Voldemort's body he was, for some strange reason, inhabiting, he didn't know, and didn't much care about, considering that this was, as far as he knew, simply a very, very weird nightmare. "You tried to kill me. Thrice. I'm not going to tailcoat and decide that maybe your idea of purging Muggleborns isn't a bad thing at the drop of a hat."_

_Voldemort chuckled; an eerie, chilling noise that made the non-existent hairs on Harry's non-existent neck stand up straighter than a Percy in full view of Dumbledore. "That was not what I was ssspeaking of, idiotic child." It was interesting to note that, even though they were conversing through Voldemort's head – or at least, this was what Harry was assuming – Voldemort still had his speech impediment. "You are places you ssshouldn't be, and I have to wonder why; there is nothing you can learn by being here, you realise."_

_"__Why not?" Harry challenged, taking the time he had to glance around the room he – or rather, Voldemort; it was disturbingly difficult to differentiate between them – was in, trying to pick out something he could use to recognise the place. There was some ugly, Slytherin-ish green wallpaper, which had begun to peel off of the walls, and a set of tattered, brownish curtains that looked to be decaying before his very eyes hid the single window from view. The floor was a generic, dark brown wood that didn't really give much in the sense of a landmark, and, though he couldn't see it, Harry could hear a hearth cackling away rather nicely. He tried to turn to look, to force Voldemort's body to turn, which the nightmare should allow him to do – only to find himself with a surprised gasp suddenly bathed in complete darkness, floating around in never-ending nothingness, like a sense-deprived plankton stuck in the depths of the Pacific Ocean._

_"__Insolent child." Voldemort's voice rang through Harry's painfully bonking head like an omnipresent gong, and his chest constricted as he tried to get out of whatever he'd found himself in, because a nightmare wasn't ever this horrible – he couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't taste, couldn't feel, couldn't smell – he tried to gasp for breath, only to realise that he didn't even know if he had his mouth open, if he even had a mouth – in vain, he thrashed, trying to escape from bonds he didn't even know were there to get out, out, out, out out outoutout –_

_And with a jump, he was in Voldemort's body again, hearing the very same soul-chilling chuckle that he'd heard not even minutes – was it even minutes? It might have been hours, or an entire day, for all Harry knew – earlier. "Don't you sssee?" Voldemort smirked. "Whatever reason you have for being here – it is of no use. I can easily block you out. But I have to wonder – how did you come to be here?"_

_"__No idea." Harry replied truthfully, sounding surprisingly nonchalant even to himself. "I just did. Why? Got stuff to hide, have you?"_

_Harry felt more than saw Voldemort roll his eyes. "I am a Dark Lord, Potter. If I had nothing to hide, my ssservants would have usurped my throne a long time ago. But now that I've had my fun, I'm afraid you'll need to leave. I don't like having other people in my head, you sssee."_

_And before Harry had any chance to retort, he felt his mind – his entire being – erupt into pain, like an acupuncture specialist had forgotten to put his glasses on and was stabbing him all over with gigantic, long, sharp needles – then, he cried out; a long, harsh scream that was only answered by Voldemort's fading cackles as he faded from the Dark Lord's mind, catching only a glimpse of familiar platinum-blonde hair before he was gone entirely, drifting around in the void again as his mind screamed to get out – to leave the harrowing nothingness, to go back to his body, away from the pain – _

And with a jolt, Harry found himself back in Ron's bedroom in the Burrow, surrounded only by Chudley Cannons-orange walls and his best friend's loud, oblivious snores as he panted and ignored the sharp, stabbing pain in his scar as he tried to figure out – what the hell just happened?

Oo0oO

Not that much later, after putting on a set of robes and stumbling across the landing into the Weasleys' bathroom, Harry found himself leaning on the sink, staring with wide, Avada-Kedavra green eyes into his reflection as he tried to return to reality – to realise, no, to convince himself that it was only a dream, because, really, it hadn't been just another nightmare – by splashing some water into his face, which was now looking like he'd been invited to a splash-fest with the Giant Squid and hadn't gotten the chance to deny.

Needless to say, it wasn't really helping.

"Dammit, Harry, pull yourself together." Harry grumbled to himself, brushing his long, seaweed-green hair – this month's colour – to the side to clear his vision. "It was just a fucking dream, nothing to get so screwed up about."

But it hadn't been 'just a fucking dream', and Harry knew that, despite how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. It had honestly felt like he was awake, like he was there, looking along with Voldemort – being Voldemort – as he sat in his mouldy, Slytherin-y room, casually conversing as if they were acquaintances happening to cross paths.

Before, of course, Voldemort dumped him into a field of nothingness and kicked Harry out of his mind in probably the most painful way imaginable, but that was beside the point – _he_ and _Voldemort_ had been talking like acquaintances. And that was a scary thought.

With another slight shudder (though more of the cold accompanying having a wet face and an open window in the middle of a windy night than anything else, or at least so Harry told himself) Harry reached for the towel to dry his face, only for a small, rapidly approaching light from the distant jet-black skies to grab his attention.

Curious and wary – but who wouldn't be, after what he'd just experienced – Harry reached for his wand as he approached the still-open window. _Who's that?_ Harry wondered, twirling his wand between two fingers like a marionette's baton. _Hold on – _Suddenly, the spluttered roaring of a familiar motorbike reached his ears in a soft rumble that grew louder as it approached, and he relaxed, smiling slightly as he stuffed his wand back in his pocket. _Sirius._

Harry snorted softly, shaking his head fondly as he reached for the towel again. Of course. Nobody else was idiotic enough to fly around on a motorcycle past midnight in the coldest night July had seen in as long as Harry'd lived. Still, Sirius was good company, and Harry wasn't quite yet ready to go back to bed, so downstairs it was.

Sirius hadn't yet entered the house when Harry reached the kitchen, likely busy stowing away his motorcycle in the Weasleys' small shed, so he grabbed the large, family-sized silver kettle and filled it with cold water, before dumping it on the cooking plate, where a matrix of Sowilō runes inscribed upon the stone provided the heat to boil the water. A bunch of crushed elderberries dumped into a small bag added the flavour – and if you were supposed to add them after the tea was already boiled to add more flavour or something, Harry didn't care much at the moment – and, a short few magic-aided seconds later, the kettle began whistling, and Harry took it off the runes and onto the table, where Sirius, who had just come in, gladly took a seat.

"I see you didn't manage to pick up any girls." Harry noted quietly with a slight smirk, pouring a cup of tea for his godfather. Sirius snorted, accepting the bright orange mug with a grateful nod.

"You could say that, yes." Sirius sighed, taking a sip of his tea. The heat was unforgiving, biting into his tongue like an overeager teenager taking nibbling to the next level, but after his night, it was better than anything Harry could've offered. "I was out running some errands for the Grim Old Place. It's a complete and utter mess, you know." He said dryly, taking another sip. "Kreacher – my parents' old House Elf; the little cretin loves Purebloods as much as your everyday Slytherin, if not more – hadn't been taking care of the house at all. There was dust everywhere. I couldn't even see the floor."

"Damn." Harry winced at the mere thought of what a mess it must've been to clean up, glad that he wasn't asked to help out. "I feel sorry for you, honestly."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" Sirius looked confused, before his eyes brightened, and he let out a bark-like laugh. "You actually thought I was going to clean the place by myself? Oh, no. I was looking into getting a House Elf of my own. One that doesn't try to poison me, at least."

"Poison?" With a raised eyebrow, Harry blew a bit of steam away from his own mug, a violently purple one that reminded him of the Knight Bus. "That's a bit harsh, even if he… tends to gravitate towards Purebloods."

"You haven't met him." Sirius snorted. "If he could find a way to get accepted at Hogwarts, I don't doubt that Gryffindor and Hufflepuff would both be devoid of members within a day's time. And no, I'm not exaggerating. He practically raised Regulus, and look how he turned out."

"Regulus?"

"You don't know?" Sirius asked, surprised, before shaking his head. "Of course you don't know. Regulus was my little brother. The perfect son my parents had always wished for. A Slytherin of the worst sort. I think he might've been friends with Snivellus and his clique – Rosier, Mulciber, those kinds of people. When Walburga and Orion began spouting the Pureblood propaganda, poor, innocent Regulus immediately believed them, and decided that joining the Death Eaters was a great plan. He died a few years after joining Voldemort. Nobody knows how."

"I'm sorry." Harry said for him, feeling quite sombre, but Sirius snorted.

"Don't be. The little bastard probably deserved it."

There was a tense silence for a few seconds. Harry hung his head and just allowed his grey – the colour of pain – bangs to fall into his face, and Sirius hid a pained grimace not quite as successfully as he might've hoped. Silently, both wondered where their conversation had taken such a dark turn. They didn't voice the thought. "What about you?" Sirius quickly changed the subject, putting on a faux cheerful face. "Why're you up so late?"

"Nightmare." Harry shrugged, trying to brush it off. "Not really important."

"Must've been some nightmare."

"It was."

And they left it at that, because Sirius more than anyone understood that sometimes, when people didn't want to talk about something, you really shouldn't pressure them.

Eventually, Sirius sighed, knocked back his cup, and stood up. "Right, I'm going to bed." Harry nodded; Sirius had temporarily set up shop in the Weasleys' attic, after getting rid of the Ghoul that'd been pestering them for ages. He'd be staying there until they were able to move into Grimmauld Place. "I don't know what nightmare you had, but since I doubt you're going back to bed; you can have this, as an early birthday present." Sirius dug around in his coat, which hung from a small hook next to the door, for a few seconds, before surfacing with a small tome clutched victoriously in his hand.

With a loud THUD, it came to rest next to Harry's cup, and he raised an eyebrow at the title; _Naughty Witch Weekly; Collected Volumes_ was stamped in cursive gold above a skimpy-clad Witch that was doing _very_ interesting things to a Nimbus, and Sirius shot Harry a grin that was a lot more genuine than his earlier smile. "I'm already fourteen years too late with corrupting my godson, so no sense in waiting any longer. Have fun!"

Chuckling a perverted chuckle that had Harry fighting to contain a fond grin, Sirius swaggered away up the stairs and to his room, leaving Harry to his, ah – _self-satisfaction_.

Smiling despite himself, Harry took a sip from his mug – which had, over the course of their conversation, switched from a violent purple to a funky lime – before stowing the book inside the expanded pockets of his robe. No sense in letting Mrs. Weasley or Hermione see it when he hadn't even gotten the chance to check exactly how bad it was, after all (and considering Sirius and the cover, it wasn't likely to be anything close to PG).

For now, however, he wasn't really in the mood. The nightmare from earlier was still weighing heavily on his mind, as did the sudden sense-deprived state he'd found himself in after Nightmare-Voldemort dumped him there on a whim, and Harry couldn't stop thinking about his conversation with Sirius, either; Regulus had, despite everything, still been Sirius' brother, and for someone that hadn't ever had family to hear that Sirius would reject his own brother for something as simple as different views, so, so like the Dursleys had done…

It was jarring, to say the least. Sometimes, it seemed, even the so-called 'good guys' were no better than their enemies. With a sigh, Harry took another sip of his tea, and immediately put it down again with a slight grimace.

The elderberries, previously sweet and lovely, suddenly tasted bitter and cold, and reminded Harry of the times that he'd been forced to spend the night outside after the Dursleys locked him out, when he'd really fucked up and actually gotten a grade higher than Dudley, or used magic on accident. Despite himself, Harry couldn't help but wondering – if Sirius acted like this towards his own brother, then what would he do if Harry had been angry at Muggles, for abusing him like they did? Would he kick him out of his life, too?

Perhaps, Harry convinced himself as he dumped his still-steaming mug of tea in the sink, the Weasleys' small library would have some answers.

(It didn't. But anything was better than going to sleep again.)

Oo0oO

"So this is the Blacks' ancestral home?"

Harry must've sounded quite a bit more sceptical than he thought he did, because Sirius shot him a glower. "This is Grimmauld Place, where my family has lived for almost six centuries now. Of course it's going to look as Dark as can be, and painting the outside's going to take quite a bit longer than the week we stayed at the Weasleys, because we can't exactly use magic in open view of Muggles, can we?"

"This is a Muggle neighbourhood?" Harry quirked an eyebrow, glancing around. The buildings, despite standing in a neat row, were all built in a Victorian-esque style – which should have been impossible, considering that, according to Sirius, the Blacks had been living there for over six centuries; but perhaps the people that built it in the fifteenth century simply had strange tastes, you never really could know – with high, fancy windows and weird, Magical-esque outcroppings in strange places, such as a nearby house, which had a turret extending from its roof. "I don't see it."

Sirius snorted, moving up Grimmauld Place's front lawn, which was decorated with strange, harrowing trees you'd expect at a graveyard, prickly thorns reminiscent of Devil's Snare, and a surprisingly large amount of black roses dotted around a small, windy cobblestone path. "That's probably the only reason they could stand living here." He noted, pulling a positively ancient key out of his pocket. "But because my ancestors found Diagon and Hogsmeade too 'plebeian'," Sirius pulled a face, "and castles were way too big for even a family as big as the Blacks, they had to find some out-of-the-way place to live instead. Stuff like the Burrow was immediately out, of course, being too 'uncivilised' for their tastes, so they eventually had to settle for a Muggle neighbourhood, however much it pained them to."

Apparently having finally found the right way to insert the key, Sirius turned the doorknob and, with a heave, pushed his way into the house, the door creaking shrilly all the while.

The entrance hall was a dark and dreary place, with huge vaulted ceilings, reaching up as far as two floors, and walls painted with varying shades of black and dark green. To the far end, there was a single door, and the hallway split off somewhere in between to lead off to the left; a small, ugly umbrella stand sat right next to the door in a position like it was put there to fall over, and above it hung a couple of small metal hooks that ended into little, creepy-eyed snakes, presumably in lieu of a coat rack.

For a brief moment after Sirius had opened the door, the entire house was quiet, save for a vague creaking of floorboards upstairs that couldn't have been anything good, or friendly, for that matter. Then, just as Sirius breathed out a brief, quiet sigh of relief –

"MUDBLOODS! BLOOD-TRAITORS!" A set of old, mouldy curtains the same colour as the green wall behind them that had previously gone unnoticed were suddenly shoved open as if by magic – _and wasn't that a stupid analogy_ – revealing a surprisingly beautiful older lady, with hair done up in an elaborate, extravagant style and two big, tar-coloured eyes, whose prim and proper stature belied the hag-like demon that was apparently hidden beneath. "FILTH! DISGUSTING, NEWT-RIDDLED SPAWNS OF A WEASEL! ROTTING WEED! HEMLOCK! DEMON'S – oh, it's you." Suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, the portrait quieted, and glared at the people in her hall with a malicious, angry gaze that nearly made Harry reach for his wand, before he remembered that this was only a portrait, and couldn't exactly harm him.

"Yes, _mother_, it's me." Sirius bit back harshly, stomping over to attempt to close the curtains, which were somehow resisting his efforts. Harry, meanwhile, was blinking – _this_ was Sirius' mother? Before he could think to open his mouth, however, Sirius was already continuing. "And look who I brought with me, my blood-traitor half-blood of a godson – you know, the spawn of those evil Potters you always ranted about."

"Oh, I remember." Sirius' mother sniffed, not once having moved her gaze from Harry. "Go on, Sirius, introduce us."

"I suppose I should, yes." Sirius growled, still tugging – in complete and utter vain – at the portrait's curtains; but for what, Harry didn't really understand, because if the woman was the one that opened them in the first place, wouldn't she just be able to do that again when they were finally shut? "Harry, this is Walburga Black, my mother. Mother, this is Harry Potter. I'd ask you to be kind, but you won't, so I'm not even going to bother."

Harry smiled bemusedly, silently wondering what the hell was going on. "Good morning, Mrs. Black."

"Yes, well, I'd say the same, but it obviously isn't." Walburga gazed down imperiously at him, before moving her stare to Sirius, who'd given up on brute force and was instead trying to charm the curtains shut. "Blood-traitors be scarring the house of my fathers with their presence… you disgust me. Kreacher!"

With a pop, an ugly, bony House Elf with massive, drooping ears and a nose as big and crooked as his mistress' appeared, glancing around shiftily, before his eyes settled upon Sirius and he glared furiously, his ears flattening against his head like a cat's. "Mistress called?" Kreacher rasped, extending his claws towards Sirius in a manoeuvre that had Harry reaching for his wand. "Does mistress want Kreacher to dispose of the lowly Blood-traitor? It would be so easy… A snap of Kreacher's fingers, and –"

"Shut up, Kreacher." Sirius interrupted coldly. "This is my godson, Harry. The same rules apply to him as they do to me. That means no killing, harming, or otherwise annoying, harassing, or obstructing him from doing whatever he wishes, whether directly or indirectly."

Kreacher's glare increased as he visibly swallowed an insult, before turning to Harry and sneering balefully. "Yes, _master_." How the House Elf made that sound like an insult, Harry didn't know, but in that instant, he suddenly realised that, no, Sirius hadn't been exaggerating when he said that Kreacher would probably kill him if he found a way.

Walburga, meanwhile, was still sitting in her portrait's chair, calmly observing the situation as if her House Elf wanting to kill her firstborn and only surviving child wasn't really anything worth noting. "Kreacher, go and see if the Potter family is on the Black Family tree."

"Yes, mistress." Kreacher bowed submissively, and with a last glare at Sirius and Harry, popped away.

"Shouldn't you know off the top of your head, Mother?" Sirius bit, hanging his leather jacket on the hangers next to Harry. "You spent ages sitting in that room, finding 'pure, untainted' wives for Regulus and I, who hadn't been 'touched by the filth of Muggle' in recorded history. I should know, considering that you presented me with the wonderful choice of a Goyle and a Bulstrode."

"They're perfectly good families, Sirius, much better than any of those Weasels could ever be – why Cousin Cedrella felt the need to go off and elope with one of them, I'll never know." Walburga sniffed, obviously referencing the Weasleys, and suddenly, her earlier weasel comment made sense. Harry frowned at the slight at the redheads, but let it slide, mainly because she'd said and done plenty of worse things in the five minutes since he'd met her already. "And a portrait is only an image and a superficial personality, with a small fraction of personal memories. You should know that."

Sirius was obviously about to growl something back at her, but Kreacher suddenly popped back in, looking quite disgruntled. "The Blood-traitor Potters are related, mistress." The creature admitted, glaring at Harry. "Aunt Dorea married Charlus Potter, the father of the filthy, disgusting James."

"Very well." Walburga shot a calculating look at Harry, who was frowning at the new information, and it was one that set him on edge in ways he couldn't quite describe. "Close my curtains, Kreacher. I have no wish to look upon this… _taint_ any longer."

"Yes, mistress." Kreacher bowed, before snapping his fingers and popping away as the curtains quickly slid shut. Then, for a brief few seconds, the hallway was completely quiet, before Sirius turned to Harry, looking surprisingly pleased.

"Well, I could say that that's exactly what I'd pictured happening upon entering this house, but I'd quite obviously be lying." Sirius grinned. "Usually Mother just screams her head off until I manage to somehow close the curtains or she runs out of steam and asks Kreacher to do it for her. A success in my book."

Eyebrows raising in astonishment, Harry asked incredulously, "_That_ was a _success_?" Then, he paused, remembering that this was Sirius they were talking about and the day had, so far, been surprisingly tame, compared to some others. Harry sighed, hanging his head, already feeling a massive headache coming on. "Suddenly, I'm not so enthusiastic about living here anymore."

"You feel like that now?" Sirius looked amused, of all things. He barked a laugh. "And to think, you haven't even seen the rest of the house yet!"

Harry groaned.

Oo0oO

Though they didn't actually enter all the rooms and closet on account of the countless creatures that had undoubtedly infested the house since it was last inhabited by people that actually bothered to clean nearly a decade earlier – Sirius said they'd get some Pest Control services to clean out most of the house, with perhaps a Hit Wizard as backup in the case of a possible Dark Creature, as soon as that afternoon – the rest of Grimmauld Place was as distasteful as the entrance hall, with dreary, Slytherin-ish greens and too-fancy, almost gaudy silver decorating the walls, and floors and a ceiling coloured the darkest black Harry had ever seen. The furniture was old, at least pre-Victorian, from what Harry could recall of Hermione's enthused lectures on the subject, and all coloured either black or a dull brown, of the kind usually associated with – well, with a turd, as Sirius oh-so eloquently chose to put it.

Harry and Sirius' bedrooms were all the way up on the fourth floor, where Sirius and Regulus had slept when they were teenagers, before the family fell apart. They'd both already been painted in Gryffindor colours, with scarlet walls and golden floors – which Harry, upon entering his own room, quickly changed to a dull crimson, because despite what Sirius might have thought there was a point where awesome became obnoxious – and large, king-sized beds stood in the middle of either room, decorated by fancy, silken sheets and fluffed-up pillows half the size of London.

Aside from those two rooms, the single bathroom on their floor, and the downstairs dining room, the entire house was filled with layers upon layers of dust, in a condition much, much worse than Harry had imagined – 'couldn't see the floor' made it seem like Sirius had been exaggerating, but it really was impossible to look beyond the dust covering every available surface. From what little he'd seen of the creature, it wasn't at all inconceivable that Kreacher had purposefully made the house dirtier, just because he could.

But that, despite everything, wasn't the worst of it. Heading back to the dining room alongside a Sirius that was happily chatting away as he ignored the various worrying sounds that erupted from around the house, Harry was fairly sure he heard a huge colony of Pixies fluttering around behind one of the closed doors, and if they'd really passed by a room that happened to house a Boggart, then the sudden chill not unlike a Dementor's Harry felt on the second floor landing would make a lot more sense than an open window, as the weather happened to be quite sunny and cheerful (and if Dementor's weren't Sirius' Boggart after over a decade in Azkaban, he'd eat his wand).

"So, first things first –" Sirius began, glancing around the dining room, "I didn't have much time to do this last week, because I had to fix all sorts of stuff like the plumbing and the rotten matrasses, but we need to change these colours." He wrinkled his nose at the walls around him. "I don't like green."

"My eyes are green." Harry pointed out dully, but Sirius conveniently ignored him in favour of taking out his wand.

"I'm assuming that you know how to cast the colour-changing charm?" Sirius asked, and didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Right, of course you do. What we're going to do is, quite simply, overload the previous permanent colour-changing charms that have been put up around the house. The way permanent charms of any kind work is that… well, it doesn't really matter." Harry's godfather waved a hand dismissively, but Harry smirked.

"You don't know, do you?"

Sirius grimaced. "…Theory was more Remus' cup of tea, I'll admit, yes. Even still, from what I can remember, there are two methods of unravelling permanent charms of any kind. The first is the boring, pansy way – you use some sort of enchanted viewing glass to enable you to look at magic, and unravel the threads making up the permanent part of the charm. Then you just cast a Finite, and surprise, surprise, it's gone. It's the method commonly used in Cursebreaking, for example, or Enchanting.

"So that's the sissy way of doing things. Snivellus would probably use it." Sirius snickered. "The other way – the fun way – is to just overload the magic holding up the charm and replace it with something else. In this case, we'll be overloading the permanent colour-changing charm for a colour-changing charm of a different colour. By myself, I don't have enough power for it, however, due to my brief, ah – _vacation_ sapping most of my strength." Sirius shrugged. "Us together should easily be able to do it, however."

"…So basically we're casting a powerful colour-changing charm?" Harry summarised, and Sirius nodded, raising his wand.

"On three. One, two – Colovaria!"

A pair of simultaneous cries rang out throughout the house even as Harry frowned, focusing as much power as he could manage in the charm – he hadn't tried this much on any other spell before, really, never having felt the need to overload a charm to such a degree – and he felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple in response to his exertion; then, not even a tenth of a second after announcing the spell, it left the tip of his wand as a giant, colourless sphere, which splashed across the wall, turning it a deep crimson – as well as the other three walls of the room, the whole floor, the dining room table, the chairs, the ceiling, and – Harry glanced up – yep, the chandelier too. Wonderful.

Sirius blinked around the room in stupefied amazement, then barked a harsh laugh that had Harry grinning weakly as he sunk down into a nearby chair. "This is perfect!" He cheered, flicking his wand upwards to make the ceiling a horribly gaudy gold and the chandelier a Cannons-orange that clashed disgustingly with the rest of the room. The dining room table was quickly charmed golden as well, only slightly less bad than the ceiling, as were the floor and the chairs. As Harry gaped around the room in incredulous horrification, Sirius grinned happily at his handiwork, and moved off to the hallway.

"Come on, Harry!" He encouraged, sounding much too cheerful. "There's still the rest of the house to do!"

Harry groaned. The headache was definitely there, now. But then again, he wouldn't change it for the world.

Oo0oO

It was later that evening – after Harry finally managed to set his Godfather down and explain that, yes, magical exhaustion was, in fact, a thing nowadays – that a gigantic, ridiculously pompous peacock (of all things) was suddenly sitting on the plum-coloured windowsill of Grimmauld Place, knocking on their window with the claw that was clutching an envelope made out of parchment that looked as if it were too fancy for the bloody Queen. It was Sirius who, with a puzzled frown, flicked his wand to open the window and let the bird in; but when he did, it merely dropped the letter inside and immediately made off again, apparently not having to wait for a reply.

"It's addressed to you, Harry." Sirius called, throwing the heavy parchment over his shoulder, where it landed on the table – charmed to change colours by the hour rather like the Weasleys' teacups, currently a disgusting parakeet-yellow – where it landed with a loud THUD. Harry quirked an eyebrow at the fancy, royal-purple script decorating the cover and tore it open unceremoniously with an ungraceful tug.

_Heir Potter,_

_House Malfoy formally invites you to attend the fourteenth anniversary of Heir Draco Lucius Malfoy's birth coming Saturday the Thirteenth._

_Kindly don the appropriate attire, or, should you not be in the possession of a robe of suitable class, loan a set from Twilfitt &amp; Tatting's._

_Guests are expected to arrive after five o'clock. Send your formal reply within a day's time of arrival, or before Friday noon. Failure to reply within the allotted time will be seen as acceptance, and responded to accordingly._

_Sincerely, Mrs. Narcissa Araminta Malfoy Née Black, Lady of House Malfoy_

Harry goggled. "Sirius? You have to see this."

"Hmm?" Sirius quirked an eyebrow as he ambled over, peering over Harry's shoulder to read the letter. "Ah. Well, you should've expected this sort of thing, honestly. You're an Heir of House, now, and even though most Heirs have their birthdays sometime throughout the year, just like everyone else, they always organise extensive parties during the summer. You'll undoubtedly get a ton more invites over the coming months. Doesn't mean you have to go."

"Wait – hold up – pause –" Harry spluttered, whirling around to face his godfather, "Heir? What?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Sirius looked amused. "The Blacks are an ancient Pureblood House, with a Lord and an Heir. I'm the current lord, as the oldest living male Black from the main line, and a couple of days ago when I went to Gringotts to check up on the state of the Vaults, I made you the Heir." He waved his hand dismissively. "It's little more than a fancy title that'll open up some political circles if you want them to, and when I die, it'll give you ownership over the Black Family Vault."

"Oh." Harry blinked. He'd honestly expected something more outrageous – this _was_ Sirius – but this was surprisingly… tame. "Alright, then. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sirius grinned, and that was that.

"By the way, did you know Draco's mom was family?" Harry wrinkled his nose, vaguely disgusted as he glanced back over the letter. "I'm related to Draco. Great."

"You're related to pretty much every Pureblood on the British Isles, you know." Sirius pointed out, scanning the letter a second time. "My grandmother was a Crabbe, great-grandmother a Bulstrode, and great-great grandmother a Flint, all through my Mother's side. It's a miracle I came out looking anything less than a troll, but I suppose that's just father's genes coming into play."

"Ew." Harry almost physically recoiled at the thought of being related to three out of five of the Houses listed on Witch Weekly's internationally and unisexually acclaimed List of Ugliest Extant Wizarding Families Alive – though the name alone should give you an idea of the intelligence of the article, it was a surprisingly accurate list not even Ron could find it in himself to dislike purely on principle. "But still, I'm not about to go to Draco bloody Malfoy's birthday party."

"I'm sure dear Cissy will be horribly disappointed." Sirius smirked as he moved away, leaning against the doorpost to the hallway. "'Harry isn't coming to Drakey-poo's birthday!'" He imitated what Harry presumed was supposed to be Narcissa, but it came out as something more along the lines of Petunia's shrill shrieks instead. "'Oh no! He'll be so disappointed!'"

"You are not going to Heir Malfoy's celebration?" Came an unwelcome voice suddenly from the hallway, sounding oddly lucent. Sirius groaned and scowled, stomping out to face his Mother's portrait, and a curious Harry followed along, unlike his godfather actually being rather curious to Walburga's reason for being rather concerned.

"Of course he's not, Mother." Sirius rolled his eyes, tugging in vain on the blood-red curtains ordinarily protecting the outside world from Walburga in a manner all too similar to how he'd attempted to close them that very morning. "It's the bloody Malfoys – the people that will be over there won't be anyone but Death Eaters and their children."

"What about Narcissa?" Harry blinked in surprise and reached up to clean out his ears of non-existent wax; did Walburga just sound concerned? "Are you going to leave her, a Daughter of the House of Black, alone with those savages?"

"If you've forgotten, it was you that set up the marriage contract with Abraxas Malfoy, and you who pushed your own son to become a member of those 'savages'." Sirius shot back, giving up on the curtains and leaning instead on the wall behind him to simply wait out the argument. "It was you that gave Cissy away, not us that gave up on her."

"Things were different, then." Walburga snapped heatedly, glaring at her son. "We were all still alive, and our numbers were in the dozens. Now everyone's dead, except for you, Harold, and Cygnus' girls. You, Andromeda, and her child are blood-traitors, Bellatrix is wasting away in Azkaban – as, need I remind you, were you, until just a few weeks ago – and Narcissa is the lone Daughter who is still in somewhat of a decent place. Harold's fate is the only one still up in the air, and our forefather's graves be damned if I don't try my hardest to attempt to reconnect the lost strings of the once majestic Blacks, even if it is through the spawn of a Potter."

Both Sirius and Harry blinked at that, completely taken aback by her reasons. "B-but I'm as much of a blood-traitor as Sirius, and Dumbledore, and the Weasleys, and everyone else!" Harry protested loudly, striding fully into the hallway to stand next to Sirius. "I was raised by Muggles, for Merlin's sake!"

"No, you are not a blood-traitor." Walburga corrected, casting an appraising glance over his figure. He shifted uneasily at the gaze. "Not yet, at least." She amended. "The difference between you and them is that they know of the Pureblood way. They know their etiquette, their heritage, what they are forsaking by allowing Mudbloods to pollute our society." Walburga sneered a little, though it faded quickly. "You, however, are simply ignorant. And you couldn't not be, after spending your first dozen years with _Muggles_."

"She's right." Sirius admitted quietly, glaring at his mother's portrait, which was looking rather smug with itself, and Harry's head whipped around to stare at him with wide eyes. His godfather shrugged noncommittally. "I might not agree with her reasons for saying so – or how she said it, for that matter – but you do need to learn about Pureblood etiquette, and how to behave formally. You'll have a seat on the Wizengamot in a few years, and showing up there in shorts and a baseball cap is social suicide; you'll probably be ridiculed wherever you go. Plus, Cissy wasn't all that bad when I was younger; if nothing else, you'll be able to see if she's worth connecting to again."

Harry sighed resignedly, knowing that they were right. "Fine. So, who'll teach me how to, ah –" He drew himself up, sticking his nose in the air and thumbing his robe near his chest to prepare for his best Draco impression – "Behave like a proper Pureblood?"

Walburga looked him over, pursing her lips critically. "Left foot further back, and let your hands hang by your sides, or clasp them behind your back; never hold your robe like that, it'll stretch the fabric. Head down a little – you don't want people to think you're staring at the sky – and get rid of that snooty tone. Other than that, you're doing decently, I think."

Harry gaped. "And for Merlin's sake, get rid of that expression forever, Harold – it's unbecoming of a Pureblood." Walburga snapped immediately, glaring, and his mouth closed with a loud SNAP.

Sirius guffawed.

* * *

**_So, Grimmauld Place finally makes an appearance._**

**_Some of you might note that, in the movies, Grimmauld Place looks quite a bit different. I'd like to remind you that that Grimmauld Place had had Sirius living in it for the past two years, and the Order for a couple of months. They'll have un-Black-ified the place, and gotten rid of anything remotely Dark or Slytherin they'd been able to get their hands on – and the front lawn looks pretty damn dark – that wasn't stuck to the walls with Permanent Sticking Charms. _**

**_The colours, as I'll explain in a couple of chapters, revert back to what they were within a couple weeks' time – they're basic colouring charms, after all, and not permanent ones, which I can imagine are quite a bit more complex. And in the movies, they were in the middle of a war – nobody fighting a war is going to waste time and resources to re-do the colouring charms on a bloody house, their headquarters though it might have been._**

**_Sirius, however, has barely been living there for a week, and the bare essentials for living include a working kitchen, a pair of beds that have actually been cleaned in the past decade, a working bath/shower, and something to eat at or off of. This, however, does not include fixing the front lawn, or seeing if there's anything to be done about fixing the front door of its squeaky-ness, or any of that stuff._**

**_I hope that cleared some things up for you._**

**_-The Baron_**


	17. Part 4 - Episode 2

.

**Part 4: Bestiality**

**Episode II**

Somehow, daily lessons with Walburga Black, self-proclaimed Muggle-hater, on pureblood etiquette and formal speech wasn't exactly how Harry had imagined spending his first week at Grimmauld Place. But then again, he _was_ Harry friggin' Potter, so he really should've expected something like this to happen.

Honestly, after the first day of learning, he'd figured that he was already almost done – Aunt Walburga, as she insisted he call her, had already deemed his gait 'acceptable' and his speech was now apparently 'barely sufficient', though to what standard that was held, Harry didn't know – but then came along the twenty-one different forks and spoons and knives used for different occasions, because the world would implode if you accidently used the crab spoon in place of a lobster spoon (which, for your information, only differed in the curve at which they angled, by a whole three degrees). Then, there was suddenly a whole day being spent on proper posturing during mealtime and the wide array of topics considered appropriate for 'prandial' conversation, because woe is the one to cross the line and even dare mention anything even closely resembling the horrible, disgusting Muggles, or animals, or Creatures, or houses, or carpets, or – well, you get the point.

It was on Friday evening, as they were sitting by the second floor hearth, that Harry suddenly realised something, glancing over his invitation to the Malfoys again.

"You know, I think Mrs. Malfoy might've been insulting me when she wrote this letter."

Sirius blinked, pulling himself upright from where he was slouching in his armchair. "Really? And you hadn't noticed it before now?"

Harry rolled his eyes at his Godfather's mocking tone. "She's being subtle about it, you bloody moron. Here, blah blah blah, 'or, _should you not be in the possession of a robe of suitable class,_' yadda yadda yadda." He frowned. "Is she, like, implying that I don't have enough money – or rather, that the Black fortune isn't big enough to be able to afford 'robes of a suitable class'?" Sirius snorted.

"I wouldn't be surprised if that was exactly what Cissy was getting at. She never really bought into the Pureblood Propaganda, you know? Always preferred to stay neutral, to avoid conflict as much as possible, I suppose – but she always had this way with words, where she'd be insulting you left, right, centre, and three ways from Sunday, and you wouldn't even be noticing it until hours, or even days later. A decade or two wouldn't have dulled those skills, I'd wager." He smiled wryly, taking a swig of his Butterbeer. "I think she out of everyone was the most surprised when the first – and last – boy she brought home with her was Lucius bloody Malfoy."

"So basically she called me a poor, likely homeless moron who doesn't know how to count." Harry deadpanned, throwing the letter in an annoyed, crumpled ball over his shoulder, where it landed in a small rubbish bin in the corner of the room, the soft thud it made on contact smothered by Sirius' sniggers. "You know, I'm really looking forward to this party." Harry sighed sarcastically. "It's going to be _so_ much fun."

Oo0oO

Malfoy Manor, Harry suddenly realised as he pocketed his Portkey, wasn't a manor. It was a goddamn castle, with giant turrets that stuck out on every corner, and friggin' _battlements_ decorating the roof's edges, like they were expecting a siege. And for all he knew, maybe they were, when they built this thing – he wouldn't be surprised if it was warded to high hell, either. Grimmauld Place was like that, too; Sirius had disabled most of the deadlier defences, but it was still a magical fortress, and anyone who even levelled a wand at its walls with malicious intent would probably end up falling into the Thames with their underwear and precious little else.

"Mr. Potter." A voice suddenly came from Harry's left, and he blinked, turning around to face Lucius Malfoy, who had strolled up the path while he'd been admiring the architecture. The Lord sounded quite confused and annoyed, though he looked as stern as ever, obviously having either been unaware of his invitation or not having expected his acceptance, and liking the possibility of neither. "I must admit; I've not heard of your acceptance from Narcissa. Your letter?"

With a nod, Harry reached inside his robe and pulled out the folded parchment, handing it out to Mr. Malfoy to inspect. The man went over it with a raised eyebrow and a faint smirk, undoubtedly catching the hidden insults much, much faster than Harry had. "…Very well." He said then, stuffing the letter in his pocket. "Come along, Heir Black." Lord Malfoy looked as if it pained him to show any kind of respect to Harry, a sentiment that he himself rather shared. "Most of the guests have already arrived, and are currently having tea in the settee. You'll be joining them after hanging your coat."

"Thank you, Lord Malfoy." Harry nodded politely, trudging up the path of Malfoy Manor alongside Lord Malfoy. So far, everything that had been said had been standard etiquette, if a rather rude, simple sort that did nothing to hide the contempt they felt for each other. But once they entered the castle, it would all be bland smiles and posh, over-the-top accents, and should Harry slip up even once, then there was sure to be an article in the Prophet tomorrow, retelling his failures in a way that would make his privacy feel horribly, horribly violated.

The walk up to the entrance hall was spent in a tense silence, aided by suspicious glances from both sides and more than anything the looming, monstrous manor, which was suddenly leaning over them like a pair of giant gates leading straight into the depths of hell.

"Come." Malfoy Senior prompted gracefully as he opened the door, no trace of the sneer in his voice showing on his face, and Harry had a brief moment to admire the man's poker face before he stepped inside Malfoy Manor, and the doors closed behind him with an ominous-sounding THUD.

This, Harry suddenly realised, had been a horrible idea.

"Minnie!" Malfoy called out into the empty hall, and with a soft pop, a House-Elf appeared.

"You called, Master Malfoy?" She, unlike Dobby, seemed to have a perfectly well-cultured British accent, and blinked up at her master from behind a frivolous and fancy black-and-green-coloured uniform.

"Yes, accept Heir Black's coat."

Harry shot the Lord a glare that turned into a halfway displeased one as soon as it appeared. "I can hang my coat myself perfectly fine, thank you, Lord Malfoy." He demurred politely, and the Lord seemed surprised by his proficiency in the manners of high society, before it was masked by a look that was a little too indifferent to be real. "Where would the coat rack be located?"

"Somewhere inconvenient." Malfoy smiled blandly. "We always have the Elves fetch ours."

"Very well, then." Harry acquiesced after giving the lord a searching look, sliding off his fancy – Muggle – trenchcoat with a graceful shrug that had been permanently etched into the surface of his frontal lobe by a couple of billion lessons under Aunt Walburga. "Minnie." He prompted, holding out the coat to the elf. It had been bought by Sirius, after they'd been around a few too many high-class Magical shops to shop for proper robes for both their tastes, and he wasn't about to willingly let it disappear, but a continued refusal would undoubtedly make Malfoy annoyed with him. Minnie accepted the coat with a graceful bow, and disappeared with another soft pop.

"Shall we?" Malfoy motioned up the great marble steps, and Harry nodded.

"Lead the way."

Oo0oO

Most of the conversation in the – absolutely monstrous – sitting room stilled as soon as Harry followed Malfoy Sr. through the doors, but Harry didn't let it bother him, instead making way for Narcissa Malfoy as soon as he spotted her, sitting with a group of old, harpy-faced women. "Lady Malfoy." He greeted politely, reaching down to brush his lips over the top of her hand (mentally, he retched) in the traditional Pureblood greeting. "How do you do."

Mrs. Malfoy didn't react outwardly, but Harry spotted the undercurrents of surprise on her face as he rose from his bow. "How do you do, Heir Black." She returned politely, nodding. "I must admit, I had not expected your agreement, especially considering your previous… misunderstandings with my son."

Harry smiled, silently hating this situation and planning to give Sirius a savage beating the second he returned to Grimmauld Place for thinking for even one second that this might have been a good idea. "We don't abandon family, My Lady, no matter our previous conflict."

Her expression morphed into a tiny, pleased smile. "Good." Narcissa sounded satisfied as she motioned off to the side, where a large table full of wrapped presents stood, and Harry was forcibly reminded of Dudley's yearly score, back at Privet Drive. "Your present can sit there with the others, until Draco is ready to unwrap them at the end of the evening."

"Very well." Harry nodded politely. "Ma'am." Proper etiquette fulfilled, he moved off to dump his present for the blonde git – a copy of Tales of Beetle the Bard, properly childish yet still appreciated enough by adults to not be considered an insult – before moving off to pour his own tea; or rather, moving off to order a House-Elf to pour him a cup of Elderberry tea, because the Malfoys were apparently too rich to bother with such plebeian things.

Surveying the sitting room once more from behind his steaming cup, Harry sighed incredulously. Somehow, a nice and quiet summer at his Godfather's had turned into a birthday party for Draco Malfoy.

If anyone needed any further proof on how horrible his luck actually was, then this was bloody it.

Oo0oO

"And what is the Boy-Who-Lived doing here?"

Blinking at the unknown, snooty voice, Harry turned around to face the young girl that had snuck up behind him from where he'd been looking for a free seat that wouldn't force him to participate in polite conversation – he very, very vaguely recognised her from… somewhere, though he couldn't remember where. "Er – family business, mostly." He replied honestly, though she seemed rather put-out by the lack of inside information. "And who might I be speaking to?"

The girl superior sniff. "Astoria Greengrass – but that would be My Lady to you, Potter."

Harry quirked an eyebrow in bemused amusement, though he did recognise her now – the sorting ceremony from the beginning of the previous year. She'd be heading onto second year, now. "Oh?" He asked, unable to hold back a smile at her self-assured nod. "And why would that be? Usurped your mother as Lady Greengrass, have you?"

Astoria looked at him as if he was incredibly stupid. "My uncle's the one who brought you onto Puddlemere United, you know. You should show some respect." She accused, and Harry chuckled.

"Alright, tell your uncle I appreciate his efforts." He answered, taking a sip of tea. "And I'm sure that Oliver did, too."

"You'd better." Astoria stared down her nose at him – honestly quite impressive, since she was about one-and-a-half heads shorter than himself. "If you don't, then I'll talk to Uncle – I'm sure that if I try I can get him to put you off the team –"

"Astoria, don't." And suddenly there was someone else behind Astoria, who shared too many similarities not to be her older sister – not to mention that Harry'd seen her in classes a couple of times in passing. "Please excuse her, Heir Black." Daph – Daph – Daph-something (Harry'd forgotten her name, and quickly hid the reflexive wince bred from Walburga's screeches every time he actually went and forgot something important like the name of a bloody heiress) interjected, smiling dangerously down at her little sister, who scowled. "She's not quite yet learnt the proper etiquette for speaking to her betters."

"Potter's not my better, though –" Astoria protested, but was silenced by an icy glare from Daph-Daph-Daphine?

"That's Heir Black to you, Astoria." Daphanie – _nope_ – reprimanded, frowning down at her. "And just because Uncle is the one to pay him doesn't mean you're his superior."

Astoria pouted. "That's stupid."

"No, it's logic." Daphna – _dammit_ – corrected, turning to Harry. "Heir Black, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise." Harry smiled, trying to remember if she was part of Malfoy's clique – he didn't think so, but on the other hand, she was here on his party… but then so was he, so that wasn't really a valid point. "I think we worked together in Potions at some point, though I don't think we were ever properly introduced."

Daphne – _There we go, bloody hell_ – blinked, looking faintly surprised. "I hadn't expected you to remember that, actually." She answered, sounding pleased. "And I don't think we were actually introduced because, at the time, you thought Slytherins were the root of all evil." She smirked at his flush. "I'm glad to see that has changed."

He shrugged uncomfortably. His talk with Sirius in the burrow on Regulus had kind of put things into perspective, and he'd silently been contemplating the issue ever since. Well, that, and… "I had to learn that lesson the hard way, with the – what did the Prophet refer to it as, again? – the Black Incident."

"Yes, quite." Daphne grimaced, before reaching over to clasp Astoria's shoulder tightly. "Well, we must be moving off, now. Father is waiting for us, and I merely came to fetch Astoria back." She smiled tightly at her sister, who seemed to crumble under her angry look. "Now, if you'll excuse us…"

Just as sudden as they came, they were gone again, disappearing amongst the gathered groups and cliques to find their father again, and Harry was left standing awkwardly in the room looking around for a seat again.

"Over here, Potter."

Harry blinked, turning to the side to face a nearby table, where a single boy was sitting, looking over the top of his book. "You wish for a table without much conversation, and I do believe that this is the only table of the sort you'll find within this house."

"I –" Harry blinked again, before moving over, tea and saucer in hand. "Well, thank you."

The boy grunted noncommittally, and turned back to his book. "I can already see you wondering, so I'll answer before you ask – my name, as I said last year, is Theodore Nott. And no, I do not follow Malfoy around like a smaller version of Crabbe and Goyle."

"I don't remember –" Harry began slowly, before a memory of the ride to Hogwarts the year before hit him. "Oh yes, you were the one who spoke up against Ginny." He frowned at his new companion, who didn't even bother to glance over. "That wasn't very kind, you know."

"I know." Nott shrugged. "Did it matter? Not really, because it was doubtful I'd see her again. Does it matter?" He glanced over at Harry. "It might now."

"So are you going to apologise to Ginny over it?" Harry prodded, and Nott shot him an unimpressed glance.

"I wasn't wrong, and I'll not apologise for being right." Nott shrugged, flipping a page in his book.

"Yes, but it doesn't matter if you're wrong or right, it matters that you hurt her –" Harry tried, but Nott shot him such a withering look that he couldn't do anything other than clamp his mouth shut.

"I invited you over for mutually beneficial silence, Potter," Nott warned, "not chat, so kindly be silent now." And with that, the Slytherin turned back to his book, leaving Harry to blink at his (not completely unexpected) rudeness.

Well then, Harry figured wryly as he took another sip of his tea_._ Wasn't this awfully fun.

Oo0oO

"Potter."

…And there was the dreaded voice he'd been waiting on all night long. Harry turned around in his seat, and inclined his head politely. "Malfoy."

They were silent for a few seconds, waiting on the other to speak up, until eventually, Malfoy gave in. "What are you doing here, Potter?"

"What, at your birthday bash?" Harry quirked an eyebrow, and from the corner of his eye, he spotted Nott hiding his face behind a book in either annoyance or amusement, he didn't know. Malfoy glowered, and Harry hastened to correct himself. "No, of course not – at the fourteenth anniversary of your birth. Apologies for the insult, Heir Malfoy, I did not wish to offend –"

"Potter –" Malfoy threatened, "Answer the question, would you –"

Harry shrugged innocently. "Well, I'll tell you what I told Astoria; family business. Your mother is a Black, and as Heir Black, I was sent by my Lord to speak with her on the subject of family allegiance." Or, if you prefer, he was sent to check if she could be converted to the Black side; but so far, he wasn't having much luck. "I can't seem to get to speak with her, however, so I'm left sitting with Heir Nott over in our cosy little corner."

Now it was Nott's turn to glower. "I never should've invited you over here." He grumbled. "Try not to let this turn into a full-on altercation while I head for the loo – Malfoy's been fingering for his wand for a while now –" And indeed, there were quite a few scratch marks in the cuff of his sleeve where his wand must be hiding – "And you'd only escalate it, Potter." He glared at the both of them as he stood up. "If anything happens to my book, you're both dead."

And he was gone.

Harry tilted his head contemplatively at the book his… acquaintance(?) had left behind. "I don't suppose you can ask an adult to conjure some paint for us to dip it in, could you, Malfoy?"

Malfoy glowered. "Don't change the subject, Potter." He accused, and Harry hid a smirk behind his tea, glad to have one-upped him. "What do you want with Mother?"

"I, personally, want nothing." Harry shrugged, taking a sip of tea. "My godfather wants to possibly reconnect with his cousin, I think, but that's about it."

"…Alright." Malfoy was finally forced to admit, because really, there wasn't anything wrong with what Harry had said. "But I'll tell you now, Potter, if you lay even a finger on her –"

"Wait –" Harry interrupted, incredulous, "You thought I wanted to – you know – tap dat?"

"WHAT?" Malfoy thundered, face turning completely red in steaming anger as all conversation around the room stopped dead in its tracks. "POTTER, IF YOU DARE –"

Harry roared with laughter, and was forced to abandon his tea on the table before he spilled it all over his robes. "M-Malfoy, you actually thought –" He choked, before looking up at Malfoy's furious visage and collapsing into laughter again. "Merlin, no – I'd never – I'm sorry, Malfoy, but –" He laughed, "Just – your face –"

"…Shut up, Potter." Malfoy grumbled, glaring angrily, before he moved off through the doors of the sitting room, presumably to whine to his father.

Harry was left chuckling by his lonesome, until Nott returned several seconds later, taking only a brief moment to glance around the frozen room before taking place at Harry's side and hiding his face behind his book. "I'm not even going to ask." He muttered, and Harry stifled another laugh when he spotted Narcissa herself standing up and walking over, a silent frown hidden under her features.

"Heir Black." She began quietly, even as, as if by some unspoken signal, the rest of the room began talking again. "I hope you did not make my son overly mad?"

It was posed as a question, but Harry saw it for the threat it was. He shook his head. "No, it was a mere misunderstanding, Ma'am." He replied. "I thought he meant something quite different than what he was saying, and when I went to ask, he grew… cross with me."

Lady Malfoy gave him a piercing look, before nodding placidly. "Very well." She turned to move in another direction, back to her seat, but Harry spoke up quickly before she could.

"Ah, Lady Malfoy?" He asked politely, and when Narcissa quirked a graceful eyebrow in his direction, he smiled. "Lord Sirius Black requested me to ask My Lady if she would be averse to exchanging letters with him. He, ah – not only wishes to reconnect with a lost Daughter, but is also looking to speak with a cousin, I do believe is what he wished me to say."

Narcissa stayed silent for several moments, and briefly, Harry feared that she would decline – pretty much making this entire venture a waste of time – before she gave the tiniest of nods. "I shall consider it."

Harry nodded back. "Thank you, Ma'am."

And that was that.

Oo0oO

Draco was fuming as he moved through his manor, because – how dare he? How dare that bastard Potter come over here, _on his birthday_, and make fun of his mother like that?

It was one thing to do so in Hogwarts, but to come to his own house, with that _stupid grin_, and to – to – to threaten _doing_ his mother right to his face (why would he even make fun of that? It wasn't like she was particularly attractive, or anything) – Draco could hardly just let him sit there, sipping that bloody tea with such a disgusting smirk, could he?

"Father!" He scowled, stepping into Lucius' study without even bothering to look. "I want Potter gone, now!"

Lucius shot him an annoyed look, putting his quill and parchment aside. "You should knock when you come in, Draco." He reprimanded. "And what's this about Heir Black?" Draco could already see the sneer beginning to form on his father's face, and mentally rejoiced.

"He was threatening to – to _do_ Mother!" Draco spat, scowling. His father suddenly looked amused, the fool, and his scowl deepened. "I want him gone, Father! He shouldn't even be here!"

"He threatened to 'do' your mother?" Lucius asked pointedly, smirking. "And you think he would actually follow through with this?"

"Well – yes – obviously –" Draco sneered, "I don't want him around Mother, Father!"

"He is the Heir to your Mother's maiden house, and godson to her cousin." His father said eventually, after thinking it through for a while. "Even if I wanted to – and somehow, I don't find it hard to believe that you've actually forgotten this –" Draco bristled, but didn't refute the statement, and Lucius scowled, "I cannot simply pick him up and put him outside. It would be societal suicide, and I doubt the Minister will want anything to do with me any longer."

"But he was talking about doing Mother!" Draco protested, ignoring his father's glare. "Surely you can't just let that stand –"

"And you are completely sure this was not said in jest?" Draco paused mid-rant at his father's words, for suddenly, things made sense. Lucius rolled his eyes dismissively, scowl deepening. "Go back to your party, Draco. I doubt Heir Black will want to stay here much longer regardless of my intervention, so have fun with Pansy while she is still here."

Draco flushed angrily and turned around, storming back down the hallway as the door to his father's study closed behind him with a BANG. First, Potter goes and crashes his party, then he's talking about screwing his mother (and honestly, Draco still couldn't wrap his head around this, because she was his _mother_), and now his father is refusing to get rid of him, because of some social bull that doesn't even matter anyway!

"Draco?" Pansy asked tentatively as he stormed by. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing." Draco bit back, clenching his hands into fists at his side. "I'm fine."

She clearly didn't believe him, but he didn't care. Perhaps not right then, and perhaps not for another few months, but Potter was going to pay.

Oo0oO

"And?" Sirius asked that evening, after Harry had come stumbling out of the Floo, looking the most tired he'd ever seen him. "How was it?"

Harry shot him an acidic glare, which went completely ignored. "She'll consider it." He snapped. "And if anyone ever gets the idea to send me to a party at the _Malfoys' _ever again, I'll bash them over the head with a baseball bat, godfather, portrait or not."

Sirius paused in his reading of the Evening Prophet to stare at him contemplatively. "Well, they'll probably hold another birthday bash next year – GAH!"

Oo0oO

"Somehow," Professor – _no, not anymore_ – Lupin mused, "I don't think that this was how the Blacks left it."

Harry flushed as he stared at the entrance hall, which Sirius had painted half neon-pink – of the kind that lit up in the dark – and half a dull Cannons-orange. "I already convinced him to get rid of the lime-green polka-dots, because they were too Slytherin, but the rest of the house is pretty much just like this."

Lupin smiled, completely ignoring the visual diarrhoea as he stepped past Harry into the house, setting his little bookcase next to the umbrella stand. "I don't mind, Harry." He said. "Azkaban couldn't have been too jolly for him, so I can imagine he'd want a change of scenery, however… drastic."

"…That's true." Harry nodded, moving off down the hall. "Professor – actually, what do I call you now?" He paused, glancing back uncertainly, and Lupin shrugged, smiling easily.

"Whatever you like, Harry." He said, shrugging off his old coat. "I'd prefer just Remus, but if you don't feel comfortable with that, Lupin's fine, too."

"So, 'Just Remus', how d'you like our little place?" Sirius prodded, sticking his head out from the hall leading up to the stairs with a happy grin. "Beautiful, isn't it? Mother really appreciates it, you know."

Walburga's portrait huffed as its dark green curtains slid open, and Prof- Lupin jumped at the sound. "I do _not_." She spat, glaring around the hall. "To see my forefather's house disgraced so – they must be rolling in their graves."

"Also, Remus is a Werewolf." Sirius interrupted helpfully, beaming first at her frozen face, then at Lupin, who was glancing between the portrait and Harry fearfully. "Oh don't worry, Harry already knew –"

"HOW DARE YOU –" Walburga screeched, and Lupin flinched backwards, clamping his hands over his ears, and Harry felt a stab of sympathy for the older man, whose sensory improvements must've made his aunt's screeches even worse. "SOILING THESE GROUNDS WITH SUCH FILTH – THE ENTIRE FAMILY MUST BE ROLLING IN THEIR GRAVES –"

"Aunt Walburga, a Lady of House Black shouldn't be so upset in front of guests, Creature or not." Harry interjected smoothly, drawing upon every single inch of Pureblood he'd been taught over the last week in the vain hope of cutting this problem off at the stem, and Walburga, Sirius, and Lupin all shot him a startled look. "Imagine what our forefathers would think if they heard a Lady of your standing representing House Black in such a manner – think, because would your mother have screamed, and yelled, and cursed at anyone?"

Walburga blinked, before scowling at him. "Get rid of that smirk; it gives away that you're attempting to fool me." She snapped, and Harry quickly fixed his expression, smiling innocently. Her scowl deepened as she glanced around the hall again, before shaking her head in disgust. "Kreacher!" Walburga called and, with a soft pop, the House Elf appeared, glaring at the assembled human(oid)s. "Close my curtains, Kreacher." She ordered.

Kreacher bowed submissively. "Yes, Mistress." He snapped his fingers, and the curtains flew shut, hiding Walburga from the world; then, with a last particularly heated look at Lupin, he popped away, muttering angrily to himself.

Harry slumped out of his 'proper' stance against the suddenly silent hall. "Bloody hell, I think I might've spent a little bit too much time learning the _proper pureblood way_." He sighed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly as he glanced around, first at Lupin then at Sirius. "Anyone have mouth-soap for me?"

Sirius suddenly got a giant, mischievous grin on his face and whipped out his wand, and before a pale-faced Harry got the chance to actually dodge out of the way – "Scourgify!"

"EW –" Harry spluttered, coughing up what felt like an entire bar of soap – "GOD – SIRIUS!"

"Well, I've not ascended yet, but thanks for the vote of confidence." Sirius put in, grin widening, and Lupin laughed.

* * *

_**Short little note for if you were wondering; I distinctly remember reading somewhere (in relation to Kate's parents, I think) that 'How do you do' is the officially accepted greeting for meeting people like the queen, and stuff. 'I'm honoured' or something along those lines isn't really considered appropriate, because of course you're honoured – it's the bloody queen, y'know?**_

_**-The Baron**_


	18. Part 4 - Episode 3

**BETA CONTEST IS STILL ON!**

**Anyone that wants to join in can send me a PM, and I'll give you the full strat on what you're supposed to do - don't worry, it only involves setting up a DocX connection through this site - and who knows, you might be my next editor!  
...not that that's particularly incredible, but still, I'll be incredibly grateful, so pretty please?**

_**A short note for any new followers:**_

_**After a short burnout of a combination of school exams and this crap, I've decided to take it easier than before; I update whenever a new chapter's ready, which I'm planning to be once every, like, two or three weeks. If it takes longer, then it's quite often that something drastic got in the way - last time it was five writer's blocks and a vacation, but it might differ between chapters - but I'll be sure to let you all know through a note.**_

_**Moving on, like I said up above, I currently don't have a Beta, so there isn't much to tell here, but this place will probably be more fleshed out by next chapter.**_  
_** I currently have one kind-of Beta, The Viking Stranger, but he's dealing with some personal bullshit right now (and I've received all of two messages from him in, like, half a year) so he can't help out, and he'll be back when he can be, but until then, he's with us in spirit.**_

_**-The Baron**_

* * *

**Part 4: Bestiality**

**Episode III**

"So," Sirius prodded with a big grin as he slid gracefully into the chair opposite of Harry's, "Looking forward to meeting your team?"

Harry shot him a tired glare over his cup of morning tea. "Shut up, you bloody idiot." He grumbled, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "It's almost five in the morning. Even Oliver didn't get up this early. Team meetings shouldn't be this early, either. Everyone should still be asleep, let alone look so damn happy."

"Na-ah," Sirius wagged his finger disapprovingly as he reached over to snag the Morning Prophet, "I've just been released from Azkaban. I'm allowed to be happy now."

"For just how long are you planning on playing that card? It's been two weeks at this point." Harry deadpanned, but Sirius just shrugged.

"For as long as the Prophet prints about me. Look at this;" Sirius cleared his throat in an effort to sound important, "_Black Declared Innocent! _Talk about old news, but it's still making the headlines." He snorted. "Then, _Recompense cleaning out Ministry coffers! Calls to sack the Supreme Mugwump_ – those are probably from the Dark coalition. _Worst mistake in living memory! Women lining up for miles to get the chance to catch a glimpse of the ever-elusive Lord Black! Ministry Aurors –_"

"Wait, what was that last one?" Harry blinked, and Sirius blinked back.

"Which one?"

"That last one, about the women."

"Which women?"

"Those."

"Who?"

"No, which."

"Wait, where?"

"What?"

"What?"

Harry and Sirius stared cluelessly at each other, and from the corner of the room, there was a loud snort.

"And that Hit Wizard wondered why nothing seemed to get done over here." Lupin remarked, stepping out of the shadows with the large pot of tea Harry'd left behind in the kitchen downstairs. "Morning, Harry, Sirius."

"Remus!" Sirius beamed, standing up and reaching over to hug his friend, who quickly danced out of the way to deposit the steaming pot of tea on their table. "I was just telling Harry here how wonderful my new celebrity life has become –"

"Your celebrity life as Britain's mangy, flea-ridden mutt, you mean –" Harry muttered vindictively, and Sirius only paused to shoot him a dirty look before continuing on as he had been –

"So naturally, as everyone's currently trying to keep me in my good graces, it wasn't all that difficult to get three tickets to the top box of the World Cup final!" Sirius grinned, spreading his arms widely as if expecting applause like he hadn't just basically bombed their dining hall like it was Nagasaki in World War Two.

"…And you picked now, of all times, to let us know." Harry sighed, burying his face in his hands, and he didn't even care when his hair started drooping into the tea on the table. Why wasn't he surprised?

Sirius shrugged nonchalantly. "I couldn't seem to find a good time, and you gave me the perfect segue."

_Life with Sirius in a nutshell._ Harry snorted, gulping down the last dredges of his tea in preparation of the undoubtedly life-threatening Floo trip ahead. _You don't know spontaneous until you've lived in Grimmauld place for a week._

Oo0oO

"Ah, Harry!" The voice of Edward Greengrass sounded jovially the second Harry came careening out of the Floo, skidding across the grass to land in a crumpled heap a few feet away from a group of amused snorts. "We've been waiting on you, you know."

"Sorry, sir." Harry grumbled half-heartedly, shuffling back onto his feet. "My godfather thought this morning a magnificent time to announce that we had tickets for the World Cup."

"Well, then it's understandable, I suppose, yes." Edward nodded along animatedly, clasping a firm hand over Harry's shoulder as he grinned at the teen. "It would call for some partying, would it not?"

"Not really, sir –"

"But I suppose you should meet the team!" Edward ploughed straight through Harry's sentence, beaming around at the assembled people – Harry counted eight, excluding Oliver, who didn't yet seem to have arrived – who all looked quite a bit more awake than Harry did. "Yes, yes; we should perhaps start with the Keeper, Maxwell – he's not saying anything, but he's of the quiet sort, so you shouldn't feel offended – and we have four chasers, Dayna, and Leslie; that's Lux, over there, and Howard's over there with the beaters – speaking of, that's Madelyn, and Fleamont, and we've Jason over there to round things off."

Edward beamed at Harry as if he actually remembered any of the names he'd been presented with, and clapped his hands excitedly. "Alright, time for some warmups! Twenty-five laps around the field, pronto!"

Harry gaped at him – the pitch they were in, whichever it was, was around twice the size of Hogwarts', plus it was _five in the bloody morning_ – and Edward favoured him with a shooing motion and another big, enthusiastic grin. "Go on, join your new team up there – this is just the warmup, after all, and whoever comes in last can fly another five laps, for motivation!"

Suddenly, Harry despaired in his choice to join the team, and silently and perhaps slightly sadistically wished for Oliver to hurry up and join him, so they could, at the very least, suffer together in joint agony.

Oo0oO

Not many people could claim to have been woken up at three o'clock in the morning on your birthday to be dragged along by their godfathers to a Muggle amusement park by flying on a bike across the pond – though at the same time, not many people could claim to live with Sirius either, so that kind-of made sense.

"How do they make those rolling thingies roll up?" Sirius wondered, squinting up at the rollercoaster, which had just begun its descent a couple of hundred feet up above, as Harry cheerfully stole some of his Godfather's massive extra-large stick of cotton candy. "Not through spells, right? Or have Muggles learned to use spells in the time I was gone?"

"Electricity, Sirius." Remus sighed painfully, though he shot a strange, sincere smile at Harry when he turned to look. "Imagine lightning running through metal, with tiny switches stuck on top." The ex-professor elaborated upon Sirius' blank look. "The lightning flips those switches and allows what the switches are connected to to activate, thus making the 'rolling thingy' roll ascend."

"Oh." Sirius made a vague sound of sudden realisation, then fell silent. "…I still don't get it."

Harry snorted around his stolen cotton candy, and Remus shook his head fondly. "Never mind, Sirius. They use a Muggle form of non-magical spells we can't replicate."

"That makes sense." Sirius nodded, then shot a happy grin in Harry's direction. "Come on, Prongslet, let's go ride one!"

Remus groaned.

Oo0oO

The Burrow was illuminated in a vague, orange glow when Harry was side-along apparated into the fields, giving the manor an almost mystical look under the rising sun. Aided by morning dew, the fields around them seemed to have sprung to life, casting a bright, reflected glare at the house, where Harry found himself knocking on the door, stifling a yawn behind his hand.

Somehow, even after living with Sirius for a month-and-a-half, he still wasn't used to waking up at ungodly hours.

"Who –? Oh, Harry!" Harry only got a split-second to observe a large head of red hair before Molly tried to choke him to death through a massive hug. "I haven't seen you in a month! How are you, dear? Has Sirius been feeding you right?"

"Of course he has, Mrs. Weasley." Harry protested quickly, somehow managing to squirm his way out of her stranglehold. "And even if he forgot, I still had Remus –"

"He forgot?" Molly suddenly started fuming. "I swear, when I get my hands on that man I'll –"

"But when he did forget I still had Remus here to make me lunch or dinner instead!" Harry repeated quickly, shoving Remus, who had been standing a little to the side with a bemused smile, in front of the angry redhead. He grinned in silent apology at the Werewolf's startled look. "He made sure I didn't starve."

Molly gave Remus, dressed in an old Muggle shirt, blouse, and jeans, a piercing once-over. "Well, that's good, then, I suppose." She muttered doubtfully, before shaking herself and turning back to Harry. "Well, come in, come in!" Mrs. Weasley smiled, ushering them inside the small kitchen that served as entrance hall. "The children are still asleep, though I don't doubt Bill will be up and about soon to wake them up – he's such a helpful young lad, he really is – but regardless, I'm glad you accepted our invitation to come with our Portkey, though I don't see Sirius with you; he went ahead to the stadium, then?"

"He went to check in, yes." Harry answered, glancing at Remus, who kept silent. "But we wanted to come along with you guys, so we know where you're at on site, and –" There was a blur of brown, and an impact – "Oomph!"

"Harry!" Hermione beamed up at him, and he grinned back, reaching down to plant a brief kiss on her mouth. "I've missed you."

"Didn't I come over a week ago?" Harry blinked, but Hermione shook her head, hugging him even closer.

"Hush." She reprimanded. "I just want my boyfriend back."

"Yeah, I noticed." Harry deadpanned, and Hermione huffed, though she was smiling when she looked up again.

"Well, shouldn't you be doing something about it, then?" She blinked innocently, and Harry grinned as she moved up to greet his mouth with hers. It was a brief kiss, at least, that was what Harry expected; but then she moved in again, and again, and Harry felt himself smiling a little as she moved up to rake her hands through his hair – PLONK.

"Not in my kitchen, you don't." Molly reprimanded, though she was smiling a little as she put away the wooden ladle she'd used to smack their heads, and Harry and Hermione both grimaced, rubbing the backs of their heads painfully. Remus sniggered slightly, and Harry shot him a betrayed look, which went ignored with practised ease. "Why don't you two move upstairs? Ron is likely still asleep, so you could go to wake him up."

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley." Harry nodded at the not-quite order, glancing at Remus. "Remus? Are you going to go to Sirius, or are you staying?"

"No, I'll be taking the portkey with you, if that's alright with Mrs. Weasley." The Werewolf put in mildly, glancing at the redhead, who nodded, though she was too distracted by her pans to answer verbally. "Besides, I think we might still have something to discuss, now that Sirius isn't here."

"…Yes, yes I think we do, yes." Mrs. Weasley replied, sounding quite harried as she moved about her kitchen. "Now, go on, upstairs with you lot." She made a shooing motion at them, though she was smiling kindly as she did. "I need my kitchen back."

Oo0oO

"…Somehow, I find myself doubting that you're going to be doing many people favours with a grin like that."

"What?" Fred blinked innocently at Harry and Hermione, quickly hiding the massive bucket of water he'd been carrying behind his back, where it stuck out blatantly. "I didn't say anything."

Harry shot him a dry look. "You're carrying a bucket of water to Ron's room. That alone is cause for suspicion."

"Bucket? Which bucket?" Fred looked around in faux confusion, nonchalantly shuffling inch by inch towards Ron's bedroom door. "I don't see a bucket." He huffed. "Youngsters these days, really. You'd expect them to know better than to accuse their elders like that."

"Oh, thanks, Fred." A tall, burly redhead suddenly slipped into the hallway from the attic, scooping Fred's bucket of water straight out of his arms. "I'll take that."

"Wha – but Bill!" Fred protested quickly, trying in vain to snag the bucket from his older brother's hands. "I was going to wake Ron up with that! George is already setting things up!"

Bill paused in his stride, still completely ignoring Harry and Hermione's presence. "Well, I suppose that would be a good cause." He grinned at Fred, who blinked in surprise, before grinning back widely.

At Harry's side, Hermione goggled. "Bill, you've to be kidding!" She protested, speaking up for the first time in the conversation. "Didn't Mrs. Weasley call you the responsible one?"

"Well, yes, but I'd call waking Ron up on time quite responsible, wouldn't you?" Bill returned easily, winking conspiratorially at Harry for reasons unknown to him before slipping inside Ron's room, quickly followed by Fred, leaving Harry and Hermione standing in the middle of the landing, blinking speechlessly.

Then –

"GAH! Sonovabitch, Bill – what the bloody hell –!"

There was a loud roar of laughter from inside the room, and half a second later, Bill, Fred, and George came sprinting out of the door, laughing uproariously. They ran down the hall, where they scattered, fleeing back upstairs and into different rooms to hide from the fuming Ron, who came running out of his room clad in just a set of boxers, hair stuck flat to the side of his face and dripping water everywhere.

Harry couldn't help it. The redhead looked so ridiculous right then, and so awkward, that he suddenly collapsed into laughter, hard and fast enough to nearly send him rolling across the floor. Ron looked over, scowling and ready to insult his likely culprit, but instead merely snorted when he found Harry standing there, making a fool out of himself as Hermione tried to keep him from falling and attempted to look disapproving at the same time, and came out looking incredibly annoyed instead.

Then, he remembered that he wasn't actually wearing anything other than his boxers, and flushed from head to toe. "Right, I'll go and change, then." The redhead muttered self-consciously, and quickly retreated back into his room, taking his shattered pride with him.

"Honestly, Harry, you shouldn't have laughed like that." Hermione admonished, though even she was smiling at the image their friend had provided.

"I know, I know." Harry said, though he was still sniggering unrepentantly. "He'll get over it, though."

"Of course he will," Hermione frowned a little, "Just – well, how would you feel if Seamus poured a tub of water over your head, then left you standing in the common room in your boxers, getting laughed at by the entire house?"

"That's not the same, though, is it?" Harry frowned, drawing himself fully upright again. "We've been friends for years, and I haven't ever even spoken to half the people in our house. Plus, I'd be splattered across the front pages near nude faster than you could blink, because, you know, national celebrity and all that."

Hermione sighed, and shook her head. "You're missing the point entirely, but – oh, never mind, Harry."

Oo0oO

"How long has it been, Molly, since we've last spoken?" Remus mused to himself as the aforementioned redhead poured two cups of tea. "Fourteen, fifteen years, something like that?"

"The last time I came along with Arthur to the Headquarters, it was near the end of the war, so I'd say something like that, yes." Molly nodded, handing Remus his cup and saucer with a kind smile. "You've been taking care of yourself, I presume?"

"I've told Arthur about life as a Werewolf before, so I'm sure you know that it rather kept me busy attempting to keep a steady supply of food on the table." Remus demurred mildly, and Molly's gaze softened immediately. He smiled a little. "It's been easier the past few months, however, with Sirius' access to the Black coffers, so I've at least been able to feed Harry as I should."

"But you've refused to accept charity for yourself, so you've been quietly starving off to the side." Molly said immediately, frowning sternly, and when Remus looked surprised at her piercing knowledge, she smiled a little. "Please, Remus, I've known you since you were in your teens, and raised seven children since. It's not that impossible."

"Well, you're not incorrect." Remus nodded, taking a small sip of tea. He grimaced at the not entirely unexpected heat, however, and quickly put it back down. "But I can hardly make Sirius pay for my own expenses –"

"Nonsense." Molly admonished, and Remus blinked at her. "Sirius would gladly pay for you, and you know it. How on earth have you been getting Wolfsbane all these years, anyways?"

Remus winced. "…A member of Greyback's pack is a potions master who gives them out in return for… favours."

"Favours?" Molly prodded, and Remus shrugged uncomfortably.

"At times, they raid rich Wizards' homes for money and supplies they don't need. I sometimes serve as lookout, and behind the scenes, make sure that any bitten are delivered anonymously to the hospital, so I don't mind."

"And you'd rather keep doing that than let Sirius fund the bill?" Molly frowned at him, and looked ready to smack him over the head with a ladle, too. She huffed. "You really should let him take care of you. Should something go wrong on one of those raids and you end up in the hospital facing criminal charges, imagine what Harry would feel." Remus winced at the thought, and Molly nodded. "It's not charity for you, it's charity for Harry, so Sirius has someone to fall back on in case something happens to him."

"…I'll think about it." Remus sighed, bringing his tea up to his lips.

Then –

"GAH! Sonovabitch, Bill – what the bloody hell –!"

Remus snorted into his drink at the vague outcry, and suddenly started coughing uncontrollably as the steaming tea shot down the wrong pipe. "Oh dear," Molly blinked, sounding quite worried, "Are you alright?"

"I'm –" Remus coughed, palming his chest painfully, "I'm fine, Molly." He coughed again, before shaking his head. "Shot down the wrong pipe, I'm afraid." He cleared his throat. "Regardless, how's Arthur been? I saw him pass by a few times when I joined Sirius in coming over here, but I didn't exactly get the chance to speak with him."

"Sirius did make things difficult, yes." Molly nodded, frowning. "How has he been, by the way? Harry mentioned last week that he was making progress in recovering his lost memory, but I haven't managed to catch the full tale."

"It's been going steadily, but we still can't risk jumpstarting it." Remus sighed. "Hestia – she works in the Obliviation department, if you'll recall – she mentioned that incomplete Obliviations can drive a man insane, if the memory remembers something it at the same time has forgotten. There haven't been other cases of an Azkaban inmate surviving fourteen years in Azkaban and getting released, so we can't be sure this doesn't work the same, which would be disastrous if it actually occurred."

"Well, at least it's going better with him." Molly smiled kindly, taking a sip of tea. "Arthur's… quite the same as he used to be."

"Still campaigning for Muggle rights?" Remus smiled, and Molly nodded proudly.

"He's hardly done anything else. He'll undoubtedly be eager to show you his collection of elektrikitical plugs when he wakes up – our shed has nearly disappeared under his collection."

Remus chuckled. "He's not changed a bit, then."

"Not at all." Molly smiled.

Oo0oO

"Morning, Weasleys, Hermione." Mr. Weasley yawned half an hour later, stumbling sleepily down the stairs to the kitchen in a knitted sweater and jeans that were way too big for him. Amid muttered greetings from his offspring, he blinked at the sight of Remus and Harry, both poured over a cup of Elderberry tea, and scratched his stubble. "Ah, Harry, Remus. Have to say, I hadn't expected to see you here quite so early. Great outfits, by the way."

"Hello, Mr. Weasley." Harry greeted, now rather more awake than he had been at the start of the morning, and Remus smiled alongside him at the redhead father. "Sirius made us wake up at five in the morning, and we merely came when Sirius left for the stadium."

"Ah, yes, he did seem quite impatient last time I saw him." Arthur smiled to let them know it wasn't a jab, before settling down at the head of the table, a few feet away from Remus. "Charlie, pass the bread?"

"Hmm?" Charlie blinked from underneath his baseball cap, looking up at his father, before his brain caught up with him and he nodded, reaching forwards for the loaf. "Sure, dad."

"Swallow before talking, Charlie," Molly reprimanded, bustling into the room from the storage off to the side. "Morning, Arthur."

"Morning, Molly." Arthur smiled fondly, reaching up to give his wife a peck – every single other redhead in the room gagged in strange tandem, excluding Harry, who had changed his hair to blazing orange at the beginning on the month and was too amused to join in – and Molly shook her head at them, turning back to the stove.

"Over nine decades shared between the seven of you, and still not a shred of maturity." Molly huffed fondly. "You'd think at least one of you would have picked up something, exploring tombs, and taming dragons, and maintaining the standard of pewter cauldron bottoms…"

"I'll have you know that it could quite possibly save a life, Mother, however unimportant the work might seem." Percy, dressed in a professional-looking jacket, puffed himself up proudly, glaring at his sniggering brothers in a way that promised great condemnation if they continued. "It's only a matter of time before my superiors notice my excellent work ethic –"

"Your excellently brown nose, you mean –" George sniggered, before collapsing into another fit of laughter –

"– practically guaranteeing a promotion into a station of note." Percy, having given up on trying to intimidate the twins into silence, seemed to have decided to ignore them instead, and ploughed on ahead regardless of the entire table's amusement.

"Well," Molly smiled, planting a kiss on her third son's forehead as she moved past him towards the food pantry, "if you don't get too big a head, anything you do is fine with me, dear, as long as you return home in one piece."

As Percy fumed in humiliation and Fred and George burst out into laughter again, Bill inexplicably groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Mum, that was one time, three years ago! When are you going to stop bringing it up?"

"Your arms were gone, Bill." Molly frowned at him as she passed, courgette in hand, and Harry and Hermione both gaped. "That's not 'just a flesh wound', as you oh-so happily chose to inform me –"

"And the healer charmed them both back on without any trouble whatsoever, since it was light magic that caused the dismemberment and subsequent cauterisation." Bill protested, swinging his arms about wildly for needless emphasis, inadvertently smacking Charlie's face into his sandwich, where he stayed. "See? See? They're fine, mum, and they'll still be fine even if you stop pointing it out every five minutes."

"You can't say that until you've had children yourself, Bill." Molly rebuked easily in an obviously well-overused argument, because Bill's head immediately found its way to the table. "Now," She smiled pleasantly, "who here wants blueberry pancakes?"

Oo0oO

Harry's first view of the World Cup was a face-full of nettle.

"Oh dear." Arthur muttered, blinking in surprise from his position on top of the little hill nearby with a worried-looking Hermione, Percy, and a laughing Fred, George, and Charlie, and Remus, having landed only a few feet away from Harry in the safe part of the field, sighed in exasperation, reaching down silently to pull Harry out of the bushes he'd been thrown into by the portkey. "Are you alright? That wasn't nettle, was it?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Weasley." Harry smiled, though it wasn't a happy one. Portkeys usually didn't agree with him, but to land face-first into a giant bush of nettle was bad even for him. "Erm – there wouldn't happen to be a spell against the sting of nettle, is there? It doesn't sting yet, but –"

"Oh, yes, of course." Arthur replied hurriedly, taking out his wand and flicking it silently at Harry's face, which immediately felt as if it was drenched in freezing water. Harry flinched at the feeling, and Mr. Weasley smiled apologetically. "There. It's an old spell Molly made me learn after Charlie once accidently ended up in a field of the stuff, and we had to Apparate him to the hospital for the anti-spell. It's uncomfortable, but it works."

"Yes, I can feel that." Harry shuddered, though he still nodded thankfully at the older redhead. "Thanks, Mr. Weasley."

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the arrival of Ron, Ginny, and Bill, who grimaced at his father. "Dad, we landed on the other side of those bushes. This is the most inaccurate portkey I've ever seen – where are the Diggorys even at?"

"Do we really need to know?" Harry grumbled quietly, and Hermione, clad in a cute, short skirt and a blouse, shot him a disapproving glance from where she'd buried herself into his side. He and Cedric didn't really get along, especially after their altercations during the year before, and that was fine – Harry could still appreciate Cedric a little in that he wasn't an outright douche like Malfoy, but wasn't busy with the hero-worship of the rest of Wizarding Britain, either, so for as long as they didn't have to interact too much, they could happily co-exist in peace.

Amos Diggory, on the other hand, seemed to be both mad at him for winning from his son using 'such a cheap trick' – Harry didn't really feel the need to point out that the Kamikaze was hardly a cheap trick, since it had actually killed someone at one point, because it wasn't like the man would suddenly change his mind if he heard that – and at the same time was attempting to be infallibly polite, as if afraid of offending a national hero. So while he was attempting to bury his head up Harry's arse, he was pouring lave through his nostrils in an attempt to burn out his insides for daring to one-up his son.

It was bloody annoying.

"They're over there, getting ready to find their tents." Charlie interjected, motioning over to the left of Harry, where the pair stood, talking to a man, who – Harry blinked, squinting – was wearing a kilt and a poncho?

"Ah, morning, Basil." Arthur greeted pleasantly as they drew nearer, and the Wizard in the kilt glanced over, looking rather like he'd been up all night, which, in all fairness, he probably had been. Diggory Sr. glanced over at them and quickly shuffled off, motioning for his son to follow him. Apparently, he didn't want to deal with Harry any longer, and that served him perfectly fine.

"Morning, Arthur." Basil returned with a tired sigh, glancing over their party. "How are you the one lucky sod that managed to have today off duty? No – wait – don't answer that, we'll be here all morning if we start talking, and there's a large group coming in in five, so your group needs to clear the area." He shook his head, browsing down his clipboard as Arthur nodded compassionately. "Weasley… your tent's about a quarter mile's walk from here over there," Basil motioned with his pen to their left, "First field you come to. Site manager's called Mr. Roberts – he's a Muggle, so mind your currency."

"Thanks, Basil." Arthur nodded.

"What's your name, sir?" Basil turned to Remus, glancing at his clipboard again. "Arthur's tent booked under him and his children only, and no offense, but you hardly seem like their older brother."

Remus smiled timidly. "A friend of ours went ahead already – though I don't quite know where our tent is from here."

"Well, what's his name?" Basil asked, clamping his pen between his teeth to begin flipping the pages of his clipboard. "We've all got a master list, so he should still be in here."

"Black. Sirius Black."

Basil's eyes widened, and he glanced up at Remus, before his eyes flicked to Harry, who smiled uncomfortably, and his forehead, where the scar peeked out almost unnoticeably from his bangs. "My word…" The manager breathed, but he shook himself before he could go off on a tangent, quickly scrolling down his list. "Black… One field on, but you shouldn't have to walk that much farther; it's on the edge of Mr. Roberts' field."

He glanced up at Remus, and, when his lip curled up into a slight sneer, Harry fought the urge to punch him – they'd been dealing with prejudice the entire summer everywhere they went, and he was getting well and truly fed up with it. "Ordinarily, I'd question the decision to leave a Werewolf with a celebrity, but the boss gave the okay, and I've no desire to get fired for letting the next group landing on top of you, so you can go." Basil glared at Remus, who merely smiled vaguely, completely unfazed. "Now go on, leave. We have another group coming in."

"Let's go, everyone." Arthur said uncomfortably, nodding in goodbye at Basil before he moved off, taking his fuming children with him.

"I can't believe that man!" Hermione bit as soon as they were out of earshot, glaring angrily at the ground. "Professor Lupin's a Werewolf, not a troll!"

"…The fear runs deeper than you'd expect, Hermione." Arthur answered hesitantly, glancing at Remus, who managed to only look a little bit surprised at how angry the girl was. "You have to understand, Werewolves weren't regarded with as much… contempt before the war with Voldemort. Mostly, they were looked at like ordinary Wizards and Witches, even if they did get dangerous once every month."

"It was Greyback that turned the populace against us." Remus continued, grimacing. "He was the leader of Voldemort's personal pack, and – well, to give you an idea of what he's like, I only really need to say that his favourite pastime is to bite pre-pubescent children and leave them to bleed out as orphans." Hermione and Ginny gasped, and most everyone else, including Harry and Arthur, looked rather green; Remus simply shrugged. "Perhaps I was lucky, in that regard – he left my parents alive, likely presuming they would abandon me once they learned of my lycanthropy."

"What – what happened to them?" Harry, who'd never heard of this, ventured tentatively, and Remus glanced back at him.

"Mother died in the war, nearly twenty years ago." He answered, looking not the least bit uncomfortable. "Father's still around, though the last time I saw him was just after I accepted the position at Hogwarts – he's got a rather formidable position in the United States Ministry of Magic, though it does keep him busy enough that he rarely has time for anything else."

"Isn't that a little sad?" Ginny asked, blushing slightly when everyone turned to look at her. "I – I mean, wouldn't he miss you after so long?"

"…Perhaps he would, yes." Remus smiled kindly, though it was tinged with a distinct taste of discomfort, and Ginny fingered her minidress with an apologetic look. "But we need to get moving a little quicker – Sirius said he was going to put on the bacon at half past five regardless of if we were going to be there, so we should probably hurry up, unless he's going to eat it all by himself."

Harry snorted, knowing full well how true that statement was, and thankfully for Remus, the matter was dropped.

Oo0oO

"Ah, there you are!" Sirius, unlike the rest of them, was wearing simple Wizarding robes as he grinned about half an hour later, spreading his arms wide open as if to emphasise the monstrosity behind him. "Isn't she a beauty?"

"…Beauty is relative, Sirius," Remus replied hesitantly, glancing at Harry, "And compared to your mother, then certainly, I'd say she's a supermodel."

"Oh, shut up." Sirius rolled his eyes, turning around to gaze up at the huge red-and-gold tower that was supposedly made out of cloth but looked and – Harry blinked, moving closer to run his hands across the fabric – felt like real stone. "It was cheap, if you can believe it! Only fifty galleons! A travesty, really – I just had to take it with."

"…Can we still get a refund?" Remus asked wearily, and Hermione finally became unable to stifle her laughter, burying her face into Harry's side as her entire body shook, and Harry chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "There's a point where being House pride becomes something else."

"Oh, shut up." Sirius rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, before opening the wooden door and slipping inside. "Come on, take a look! It's massive!"

Remus shared a suffering glance with Harry, and together they followed behind their terrible housemate, through the door and into the tent. Hermione gasped as soon as they entered. "W-what? How is it this big?"

Harry looked around, and fought the urge to facepalm. The main room alone was about the size of the Great Hall, and though it didn't have any other rooms on the ground floor, it did have a staircase leading up onto an overlook, where there were probably a couple of bedrooms. Sirius was standing in the middle of the giant expanse, grinning at them from behind a massive kitchen, which held enough benches to seat half of Hogwarts. "Space Expansion Charms, Hermione." Remus answered, giving a long-suffering sigh. "Most of the tents on this field are like this – for how many people was this tent originally meant, Sirius?"

Sirius flinched at the question. "…Three dozen." He muttered, though the words echoed through the hall, and Harry finally gave into the urge, burying his head in his palm with a groan. Hermione giggled loudly, hiding her mouth behind her hand, and Sirius shrugged at Remus' deadpan look. "It might've been an on-the-road church, once, for when people wanted to marry out in the countryside somewhere."

"And you chose to take it off of their hands to refurbish it as a tent." Remus sighed, glancing around, before shaking his head. "Well, might as well make the best of it. Did you grab the eggs?"

"Of course, of course!" Sirius' grin returned in full force, and he smacked a large, white sack on the counter with a flourish. "Charmed them with unbreakability, too, so they wouldn't break along the way –"

"And it didn't occur to you that we'd need to break them before we could cook them?" Remus shot his friend a reproachful look, and Sirius blinked, before scratching the back of his neck.

"…Can't we just undo them?"

Harry sighed painfully. Hermione just laughed.

* * *

_**Gah. I'm not a fan of this chapter, at all. There were, like, five or six Writer's Blocks – and no, I'm not exaggerating – nothing at all got done, it's about two hundred words under my preferred size of a chapter, and yet it still took over a month to come out.**_

_**All I can say is, I hope you at least kind-of enjoyed, and that I didn't end up wasting your time, because I think I might've hit a new low, here, with this one.**_

_**Also, final note, I am completely incapable of writing Molly. She's too… one-sided. All you hear of her up until the fight with Bellatrix – and keep in mind, this is at the end of book seven – is 'You're such a darling, Harry.' and '[insert child here]! Stop doing that!' and a little bit of 'Stay safe!' And even then, it's more about protecting her children than anything else. (In all fairness, you do get a bit of 'Don't see Harry as James' in Book five, but that's still nothing but protectiveness.)**_

_**Don't get me wrong, I like Molly, I like her a lot. But it's rather hard to deny that she's got a one-sided personality, however delightful.**_

_**Anyway, Review Replies!**_

_**Cruzcartoon: They're not going to become friends, of course not. Draco was angry, wasn't he?  
Also, Harry's not Heir Potter, because Potter isn't actually a House. It isn't in canon, either, so he's not Heir Potter-Black. And at the same time, he's not a Black by name, so he's Harry Potter, Heir Black.  
That make sense to you?**_

_**Danget the Critic: That makes sense, yeah. It also explains why I rarely feel like eating breakfast nowadays, even though I couldn't go without it before. Thanks for pointing that out, even if you were half asleep ^^**_

_**Duellist: …You have a point. Imma pay attention to that in the future. Thanks.**_

_**Essus1967: …It's a joke. Obviously, he wouldn't know about that, but – well, I guess that I can explain it this way; I don't want this to become a formal book you've been ordered to read by a teacher, I want this to be something you'll read when you sit down on the couch after a long day to relax.  
If it was serious, then it would've been a problem. But it isn't. Obviously.**_

_**Fireassassin: There isn't really. They're just metaphors, obviously, but a metric ton is more than a ton, so I'd say that a metric buttfuck-ton is more than a shit-ton. But maybe that's just me.**_

_**Guest: That's actually a marvellous idea. I hope you won't mind if I decide to incorporate it some day ^^**_

_**Sliceshadow: When I get to that, I'll definitely add the scene with Sirius and Narcissa in – but I don't know what Draco's revenge will be yet, however, so I can't tell you anything about that. Thanks for the input, though!**_

_**The Amazing Grayson: …Well, I mean, I didn't want this to become a fic where Harry was scarred by actually murdering someone, even if it was Marge – it used to be that way before the rewrite, but would someone really recover from murdering someone just like that?**_


	19. Part 4 - Episode 4

**Note as of 09/01/'17: ...Yeah, I think this was a long time coming, but it's about time I declare this a dead fic.**

**Erm - I don't really know what to say, except that it feels like I've been beating a dead horse for ages. Some advice for y'all aspiring writers out there; don't rewrite a fic more than once. I tried, and, it's just - I don't even know what I want to do with this piece of shit anymore, and I don't ever feel like writing at all. It'd just be forced, and I don't think you're supposed to hate your hobbies, are you?**

**If any nutcase out there wants to adopt this, then feel free, and I'll see you on the other side, my friend; I hope your trip to hell was bearable.**

**(On one hand, I feel that I should tell y'all what should have happened in the next chapter, but... nah. Don't feel like it.)**

* * *

**Part 4: Bestiality**

**Episode IV**

The Stadium of the World Cup was lit up by thousands upon thousands of lanterns, dancing entrancingly in the evening breeze as Hermione and Harry moved up the softly lit path, following behind Remus and Sirius as they argued quietly on exactly how capable Sirius was on packing food, something they'd been discussing since the latter's failure at doing so at the very beginning of the day. Harry tuned them out in favour of looking around, however, taking in the happy shouts, and laughter, and half-drunken singing that was taking place around them; the match had yet to begin, but it almost seemed like the excitement had already passed and everyone was riding out their happiness in an after-party of epic proportions.

For them, however, the day had, for the most part, gone by quite slowly; aside from the odd visitor here or there (Minister Fudge, for one, had greeted Harry with a friendly pat on the shoulder when they passed each other on the way back from gathering water for Arthur, who insisted doing everything the Muggle way, and Percy's flabbergasted look would go into the history books) and the occasional deep, poetic thought from Sirius ("How do Muggles Vanish their waste without magic, when they're out in the middle of nowhere?") it was really rather as unremarkable as any other, provided your average day was spent in complete chaos in a giant tent camp someplace you don't even know, and considering Sirius…

Hermione suddenly gave a shiver, breaking Harry out of his thoughts, and she grimaced, wrapping her arms around herself as she leaned into Harry. "How come you're not freezing out here, walking around in just a shirt?" Her tone was slightly accusatory, and Harry shrugged helplessly, pulling his girlfriend tighter against him.

"Well, if you want, we can switch, and you can be the one training at half past five in the morning every weekend." He reminded teasingly, and Hermione almost snorted at the thought. "Still, it's not _that_ cold." His eyes shifted to a passing group of centaur-esque humans with a snake's bottom instead of feet, who were slithering around in little more than underwear, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Naga are cold-blooded, Harry." She reminded, and Harry shrugged, though they were both smiling when she looked up at him, before her eyes averted back to the ground. "Still, there's… something else. I don't know," She shrugged helplessly, "Maybe I'm just going crazy."

"…Yeah," Harry replied after a moment of thought, smiling mischievously. "I can see that. Hey – ow! Why so violent, woman?"

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly, wrapping her arms around Harry's to re-bury herself into his side. "What'd you expect, calling me a crazy witch?"

"Hey, hurry it up, would ya?" Sirius called from up ahead, and they turned to face him, blinking when he was suddenly way in front, ignoring the annoyed mutterings of the stragglers still left packing in the tents around them. "We'll be late if we're sticking with your pace!"

"Shut up, you bloody idiot!" Harry hollered back, and Hermione shot him a reprimanding glance, though it was a surprisingly soft one. "Just walk ahead, if you don't want to wait on us!"

Sirius sniffed. "Fine, maybe I will!" He retorted, turning back around and stomping after Remus, who was busy pretending he didn't know his crazy housemates even farther ahead.

"You know, I really shouldn't get surprised at his maturity anymore," Hermione mused, and Harry snorted.

"I don't think anyone's ever going to get used to Sirius," He commented. "Have I told you about my birthday yet?"

"Oh, no," Hermione smiled, "Only about some seven or eight times –"

"Why, hello, luv." A familiar voice suddenly piped up from behind them, and with a blink, they turned around, only to find Roxanne standing there, a giant, mischievous grin on her face. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Hermione rolled her eyes, breaking her hold on Harry to hug the younger girl. "Honestly, I told you we were coming here two weeks ago," She huffed, pulling back to Harry, and Roxanne's grin widened. "Did your memory really become that bad over the summer?"

"Nah, 'course not." Roxanne shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Heya, Harry."

"Hi." Harry returned lamely, glancing at Hermione. "I didn't realise you'd become friends."

"Yes, while we had our… spot of trouble, at the end of last year." Hermione shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable at the reminder. "I needed someone else to sit with, and Roxanne offered."

"Yeah, well, with Harry gone…" Roxanne's grin turned lecherous, and she licked her lips as her eyes started wandering downwards, before she promptly lost herself in giggles at the disturbed look on both Harry and Hermione's face. "S-sorry, I – I couldn't help myself." She gasped, stifling the remainder of her giggles behind her hand. "You're – you're both too easy to tease, you know that?"

"Insolent pervert." Harry grumbled good-naturedly, before glancing around with a slight smile. "Where's your mother? Shouldn't she be here with you?"

"She's in our tent, over there," Roxanne shrugged, motioning off to the side in between a pair of tents where Harry couldn't see. "I, er – well, I wanted to catch up a little, since we haven't really talked at all since Christmas, but I heard you need to go, don't you? Where are your seats, anyway? Maybe we can meet up later!"

"…I'm afraid that's going to be difficult." Harry hedged, and Roxanne shot him a curious look. "We're in the Top Box, and our tent's rather far away, so I doubt your mother'll let you come over later, too –"

"Oh, no, it'll be fine." She smiled eagerly, bouncing on the tips of her toes. "Really, what's the worst that could happen?"

Oo0oO

"Took you long enough." Sirius huffed when they finally entered the Top Box, nearly half an hour after they'd been left behind by the immature Animagus. "The game's about to start, y'know."

"Harry!" Minister Fudge, apparently having decided to completely ignore the fact that Harry was about to retort to someone else, strode over with a merry grin on his face. "It's been a while – I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to speak with you today, when we passed. You're, ah – doing alright, I suppose, with your godfather?"

"Certainly, Mini– Cornelius," Harry nodded, glancing at Sirius, who was watching the proceedings with a frown, out of the corner of his eye. "He's been treating me marvellously."

("LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME –!" The man famed nationwide as Ludo Bagman yelled through his Sonorous from up front, and Harry tried his best to ignore the ringing in his ears and continue his conversation –)

"Great," Cornelius beamed, "magnificent, yes! Headmaster Dumbledore had his reservations, you know – didn't really know about leaving your Aunt and Uncle behind – but I'm glad that it's all worked out for you. Glad, yes…" He trailed off, glancing around the room, before motioning over to the row of seats facing the stadium. "Regardless, take your places, please! I believe there's still a spot left in front of the Malfoys, right over there –"

"Thanks, Minister." Harry nodded, leading Hermione to their seats, conveniently placed right next to people he really didn't want to see. "Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy." He nodded politely in greeting, though it wasn't more than a bob of the head, at most – which, directed at a Lord and Lady, basically meant that you wanted them to burn in the fiery pits of hell, but you couldn't actually condemn them to such a fate, 'cause, you know, politics.

Lucius' eyes narrowed, though he did nod back ever so slightly; Narcissa simply smiled at him, though it was rather sharp around the edges, and Draco, who'd been completely ignored, just sniffed haughtily, happily pretending as if he were important. The House Elf at the end of the front row was looking around shiftily, probably waiting for her master, and Harry sank down into his seat next to her with a silent nod of acknowledgement.

Suddenly, Harry's mind flashed back to Dobby, the overeager House Elf from his second year. He hadn't even thought about him since then – though in all fairness, with the crap with Sirius from last year, it really wasn't that much of a surprise – and absently, he wondered what the little creature was doing, now. Had he found another job as servant?

("…TO INTRODUCE: THE BULGARIAN NATIONAL TEAM MASCOTS!" Ludo yelled, and the stadium exploded into noise –)

"I don't think I'll ever get used to Pureblood Harry," Hermione muttered from where she'd been observing the stadium near the edge of the box, sweeping her skirt underneath her legs to sit decently. "Honestly, I'd prefer to just have Muggleborn Harry around."

Harry snorted, reaching inside the expanded inner pocket of his jacket to grab their Omnioculars, "You and me both." He admitted, none too quietly and well aware of the steadily souring looks behind him. "Aunt Walburga kept trying to convince me, but as long as she's telling me to murder you and your parents, I don't think I'll follow."

Hermione smiled. "I didn't expect anything else," She said, and reached over to give her boyfriend a small peck. Instantly, Malfoy coughed audibly from behind them, and Harry almost turned to shoot him an annoyed look; but Hermione simply smirked, reaching forwards again to deepen their earlier peck into something that left the stuck-up gits fuming –

"Oi, lovebirds, you're missing the show!" Sirius interrupted gleefully from a front row seat on the other side of the room, but he wasn't looking at them when Harry turned to shoot him a miffed look; instead, his eyes – and everyone else's – were aimed at the field below, where a bunch of cheerleaders were waving around fancy, fluorescent tufts of fabric.

"…I don't get it." Harry muttered to Hermione, who looked incredibly annoyed all of a sudden. "What's so special about this?"

"You're not affected?" Hermione turned to blink at him in astonishment, and he blinked back.

"Affected? By what?"

"By that." She motioned behind Harry, and he turned to look again; a vaguely disturbed-looking Remus was holding back a hooting and hollering Sirius from jumping straight out of the Box, and Arthur was trying to keep the twins from doing the same; Bill, meanwhile, had Charlie and Percy stuck in a headlock and was sharing a confused glance with Ginny, who was similarly kept busy by Ron – or rather, the drooling, brainless zombie he'd become.

"…What the hell is going on here?" Harry asked, left completely baffled, and it was Narcissa of all people who answered, though it seemed to be more of a general note than a specific answer to his question.

"Veela." She sniffed, casting an annoyed glance at her son, who appeared to have been glued to his chair. "Foul creatures. Relying on… carnal pleasures of the flesh to get through their day – it's despicable."

"They have an aura that leaves men brainless and thinking of nothing else but, ah – getting in their pants, if you will." Minister Fudge, seated a little to the left of the Malfoys, continued, a frown audible in his voice. "I myself am fortunate enough to own a ring enchanted to resist all manner of persuasion magic, a standard part of a Minister's ensemble, though as you can see, most of the Box isn't quite as fortunate."

"What were the organisers thinking, authorising something like this?" Hermione hissed, glaring down at the pitch, where dozens upon dozens of Wizards and the rare Witch were storming the pitch, quickly overwhelming the security forces stationed there to prevent exactly such a thing with sheer numbers. The Veela cheerleaders, meanwhile, had dropped their act and were running around like headless chickens, trying and failing to get away from the massive horde of supporters that was closing in on all sides; loud shrieks were penetrating the thick, testosterone-charged air as hundreds upon hundreds of men tried to convince the Veela that they were the manliest in a series of who-can-yell-the-loudest that left Harry's ears ringing, and a tiny part of his brain was wondering why, then, he wasn't affected in the least, until the part that was complaining about the noise simply squashed the useless little bug.

"National Teams are allowed to bring whichever Magical Creatures they desire, as long as it wouldn't risk the lives of the watching people." Cornelius explained with a sigh. "Hungary brought a pair of tamed Hungarian Horntails, just a short few weeks ago, in the semi-finals; the security measures for that were _dreadful_, let me tell you… One of our very own Aurors gave an arm and a leg, trying to keep them under control…"

("Calm down everyone!" Bagman tried to settle things down, but even he had been mesmerised by the dancing women, and didn't seem to notice that his Sonorus had quit. "Calm down – Bulgaria, why aren't you recalling your mascots –")

But, of course, just when they didn't think it could get any worse than it already was, it did. The Veela, abandoned by the security forces and about to disappear underfoot, decided to show their other, less-pleasant side, and broke under the pressure, shifting into some strange, fucked-up avian form that left Harry wondering who, exactly, had been performing immoral experiments on good-looking women. Then, it was as if a switch had been flipped, and the struggling men and women slowly stopped calling out for dominance and instead started yelling angrily about just how stupid Bulgaria had to have been to bring so many Veela to the finals even as they tried to defend themselves from the onslaught of fireballs, because apparently, dove-humans chucked fireballs these days.

"Why on earth would they choose to bring so many Veela?" Arthur asked, finally able to let go of his sons, and behind them, Cornelius flinched. "An entire colony – I'd say that would be enough to drive all of Central London insane, let alone a single stadium."

"I, er – well, I might have told them to put on a special show, since we have so many celebrities here today." The Minister muttered guiltily, and when the entire box turned to shoot him an annoyed look, Harry found himself able to do nothing but bury his face in his palms, because _of course_ Sirius had something to do with it, indirectly or not.

("NOW," Bagman, who'd apparently discovered his missing spell, quickly continued as the Stadium slowly started settling back down, "AFTER EVERYONE HAS RETURNED TO THEIR SEATS – RAISE YOUR WANDS FOR THE IRISH NATIONAL TEAM MASCOTS!")

"Watch it be a giant tank of Morgen." Harry muttered, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Try not to jinx us, would you?" She asked rhetorically. "Plus, they're Welsh, and I highly doubt the Irish are going to bring Welsh national animals, even if they've spread all over the isles."

"Well, Hungarian Horntails originate from Mongolia," Charlie piped up helpfully, having regained his dignity a few seats away, "It's just that so many were imported to the rest of the world through Hungary that Hungary began to call them Hungarian Horntails. But like Minister Fudge said, Hungary still brought them to the semi-finals."

Hermione moved forwards to look at him and glowered. "Honestly, Charlie, if you jinx us right now –"

"Oh, why, would you look at that, they've brought leprechauns!" Cornelius sounded inordinately pleased, and everyone let out a breath of relief when it turned out that the Irish hadn't, in fact, brought a giant tank of Welsh mermen that liked to drown humans.

"And hey, there's Morgen too!" Sirius exclaimed happily, and Harry contemplated committing suicide.

Oo0oO

While the celebrations leading up to it… left quite a bit to be desired, the game itself was breath-taking, and even Ludo Bagman was constantly struggling to keep up (or, as the ex-beater described rather terribly when there was a short break, while the judges argued if a play of Volkov's was a foul or not; "THIS GAME IS GOING TO BE DESPISED BY XENOPHOBES ALL OVER THE TABLOIDS, BECAUSE IT IS OUT OF. THIS. WORLD!" Many groans had ensued, though Bagman seemed to have been under the impression that his joke had been a good one).

"Wait, how do you return the speed to normal?" Ginny, sitting on the other side of Hermione, whispered urgently, gesturing with her omnioculars, and Harry glanced over –

"TROY – MULLET – TROY – INTERCEPTION – IVANOVA – DIMITROV – A SHOT, REBUKED BY CONNOLLY – LEVSKI, A SECOND SHOT – INTERCEPTION – MORAN, ONE-TWO WITH MULLET – TROY FROM THE BACK, A KICK – SCORE!"

Ludo Bagman's commentary reminded Harry more of an auctioneer than Lee Jordan, and within the span of ten seconds, the Quaffle had made it halfway across the field, back, and all the way to the other side and into the goal. It was ludicrous.

And there he'd been, thinking the mock-games with the Montrose Magpies U-18 were fast-paced. This – this was on a whole nother level, and saying that Harry suddenly felt outclassed would be the understatement of the century; 'cause heck, if things went the way they were expected to go, he'd have to be playing on this level in less than four years.

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione, done fiddling with Ginny's omnioculars, called over the noise of the crowd, seemingly sensing what Harry was thinking, "You haven't seen yourself play – in that match against Hufflepuff, Angelina, Alicia, Katie and you were going nearly as fast!"

Somehow, Harry doubted that, but he didn't get to voice the thought, because –

"DIMITRI – LEVSKI – DIMITRI – IVANOVA – KRUM'S DIVING, LYNCH IN PURSUIT – TROY INTERCEPTS LEVSKI– THEY'RE GOING DOWN, I THINK THEY'RE GOING TO CRASH –"

And indeed, Krum had entered a steep, steep dive and was shooting headfirst for the ground; his face, magnified almost beyond recognition by the omnioculars, was screwed up in tight focus as he zoomed downwards, and Harry could just make out the few pimples covering his forehead, and the birthmark on the left side of his chin as he made to crash straight into the ground –

Hermione was suddenly screaming shrilly into Harry's ear, and he found it hard to fault her – "They're going to crash, they're going to crash, Harry!" – and as one, the stadium fell silent for just a split-second as over a hundred thousand people held their breaths, watching, and waiting for the inevitable bloody splatter on the ground – Harry closed his eyes, because he couldn't watch this happen, someone was going to slam into the ground at a hundred and forty miles an hour and it wasn't going to be pretty –

The stadium gasped, and Harry cracked an eye open; there, in a giant mound of upturned dirt and grass, laid Aiden Lynch, face bloody and broken and uniform barely hanging together, and Harry found it a miracle that the Seeker wasn't dead yet, because the last time he'd crashed on a broom was with Oliver at about sixty miles an hour, and he'd had to stay in the hospital wing for over a week; the fact that Lynch somehow still managed to stand up and wave off the medics with a clearly snapped wrist and an arm that had been bent in five different directions made Harry suddenly admire the man a rather lot more.

"OH DEAR, LYNCH CRASHED, THAT'S A TIME-OUT WHILE THE MEDICS TAKE CARE OF HIM –" Bagman's thundering, magnified voice sounded sympathetic as the man brushed himself off and the medical team, clearly against his wishes, started laying in on him with a seemingly endless roll of bandages. "UNFORTUNATE FOR IRELAND – TROY WAS ABOUT TO TAKE A SOLO SHOT –"

But the match, of course, did not stop there. It became faster, and more brutal, and as time went by, even the omnioculars started having trouble keeping track of what was going on, making the players a blur at even the slowest speeds as the magic tried to keep up with everything that was going on, and failed epically.

"This is insane!" Harry yelled at Hermione over the noise, and she grinned up at him.

"I love it!" She yelled back, sparing a brief second to give him a short, fleeting kiss (perhaps more accurately described as a brush of the lips) before diving back into her omnioculars, because even a split-second like that was enough to make you miss out on what was going on.

And as Vulchanov, who'd been hit in the face by Quigley's Beater Bat, was sent back up into the air by the medics and took the chance to hit right back and give a penalty to Ireland, Harry had to wonder if some of those Bulgarian players were just plain stupid, because they were already losing, and their idiocy wasn't helping matters any.

Oo0oO

"That was _amazing_!" Ron swooned a short hour later, beaming from ear to ear. "They didn't win, but Krum still got the Snitch in the end – forget all about Lynch, Krum's so awesome –"

"I'd say that about ninety percent of the women here today agree with you, mate." Harry sniggered, but despite his words, he found himself agreeing completely with his best friend; this match had been the best thing he'd ever witnessed, and he'd happily lay down his entire trust vault to go to another like it, and the Wronski Feint-that-wasn't-a-feint at the end was just the cherry on top that made the entire evening that much better.

"Well, I'd certainly say that this was a successful evening." Remus put in mildly, smiling softly in a manner that somehow reminded Harry of Colin Creevey's giant, happy, beaming grin, and Percy sniffed.

"Yes, if you ignore the Veela, and Lynch's injuries, and the Morgen, and how everyone made a fool of themselves in front of the Minister for Magic." Percy, the only one out of them that had looked sour the entire evening, muttered from the back of their group, just barely in Harry's earshot, and Harry exchanged a mutually annoyed glance with Ron.

"You think it's over already?" Sirius asked incredulously, and scoffed when Remus turned to look alongside everyone else. "Have you completely forgotten our time at Hogwarts? The parties didn't stop there until Minnie came to shut them down."

"Minnie?" Hermione whispered in bemusement, glancing at Ron and especially Harry, who both shrugged helplessly.

"She's more than likely at Hogwarts right now, Sirius," Remus said dryly. "I doubt she's going to apparate over just to stop a party."

"So?" Sirius grinned. "That just means that there isn't going to be an end!"

"About that," Harry spoke up quickly, "it'll be fine if one of our friends comes over later, right? I don't know how much food you stocked, but –"

"That's fine, Harry." Sirius blinked, but nodded alongside Remus' statement. "For that matter," The werewolf continued, looking at Arthur, "if you want to come over later…"

"Oh, no, wouldn't want to impose with seven children." Arthur demurred, smiling slightly. "Thank you, but no."

"Are you sure?" Sirius asked, glancing over the assorted children, of whom Ron especially looked eager to go. "Our tent's certainly big enough – it's meant for a few dozen, you know –"

"Well…" Arthur hesitated, glancing over his children. "Who wants to go, then?"

"I do!" Ron said immediately, sticking his hand up into the air as far as it could go, and Fred and George, undoubtedly smelling the scent of an ex-prisoner yet to be pranked, quickly followed. The rest didn't really seem to care either way, including, Harry was somewhat surprised to note, Ginny – though it was probably a good thing that she'd gotten over him during the summer months.

"Alright," Arthur relented, nodding, and smiling back at Ron's beaming grin. "If it's alright with Remus, you can go. Just as long as you promise to come back before midnight?"

"Sure!"

Oo0oO

"Hermione?"

Hermione blinked, brushing aside a strand of brown hair as she looked up at him from where she was lying, buried into his side on one of the numerous couches in their tent. "Harry? What – is there something wrong?"

"I don't know." He confessed, bowing his head. His hair, Hermione noticed, was turning a mix of deep orange and green, something she'd come to recognise as doubt. "I – have I been neglecting you?"

His girlfriend frowned. "…What makes you say that?"

"After the end of last term – you told me we were okay again, that it was alright that I'd been a prick about Quidditch." Harry said, not able to muster the courage to face Hermione fully and instead taking the time to look at Remus and Ron, currently locked in an intense game of chess on the other side of the tent. "But – I don't know, I just – we haven't really spoken much at all since then, with the vacation and all, and – I guess I just don't really feel that our relationship has the depth it used to, you know, before."

It was silent for a little while, and Harry had just begun to start fearing that he'd hit the nail right on the head when Hermione spoke up again. "I don't know, I guess it has, a little bit," She said, biting her lip as she looked up at him. "But – isn't that normal, with vacations? We spent nearly two months apart," She reminded him, "And that'll put distance between every relationship. Plus, it wasn't like we didn't share letters."

"Yeah, but since we got back together, we've hardly had any time together." Harry argued, not feeling the least bit appeased. "It would've been easy enough for me to arrange for another date or something at the end of last year, but –"

"Oh honestly, Harry, is that what this is about?" Hermione asked, suddenly giggling. "You just want to snog some more, don't you?"

Harry flushed. "That's not – it's –" Harry frowned, having trouble trying to express his thoughts, "you really don't feel like our relationship has become hollow, or something?"

Hermione blinked at him. "Do you?"

…Damn, she had him there. "No, I suppose I don't." Harry said slowly, searching her gaze for any doubt of her own, but of course, he found none. He should've known. With a sigh, he relaxed back into the pillows of the couch, grinning down at Hermione when she relaxed into his side with a smile of her own. "Thanks, Hermione. I don't know why I doubted."

"Because you care." Hermione replied, smile growing as she put her hand on his chest. "And that alone lets me know that our relationship's as full as it has ever been."

"…Still wouldn't mind that snog, though." Harry prompted, grinning mischievously, and Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling fondly as she reached up to meet his lips with hers –

BANG!

Harry flinched and Hermione shrieked, jumping backwards out of the chair as a blizzard of confetti suddenly erupted around their couch, and glitter thundered around them, sending their clothes and hair flapping to and fro in the strong winds. Ron and Remus, still fully absorbed in their game, barely even seemed to have noticed.

"Oops." Sirius' unrepentant voice came from above them, and Harry looked up, sighing painfully when the Twins and Roxanne were standing next to him on the second floor, laughing at his disco-coloured face. "Sorry 'bout that. It was meant to be a bomb, not a thunderstorm."

Somehow, that didn't really temper Harry's feelings of intense, burning hatred for the man who had, in essence, cockblocked him. He voiced this thought, and Sirius shrugged at him, flicking his wand around the room to clean up the mess.

"That's one way to look at it, I suppose." He said, leaning languidly on the railing of his balcony. "On the other hand, I've saved everyone here a most unpleasant sight of a horny Potter – and I knew James for a long time, so believe me when I tell you that that never ends up well."

Hermione looked outraged at what he was insinuating, but Harry snorted. "Like you're one to talk."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sirius said a little bit too innocently, and behind him, Fred and George burst out into laughter, having already been around when Harry informed Ron of this. Roxanne urgently mimed for them to be silent.

"Really?" Harry challenged, raising an eyebrow up at his godfather. "Does Amanda ring a bell?" Sirius tried none too successfully to hold back a flinch. "How about Imani? Lucia? _Gerárd?_"

"How was I to know that Adam's apples didn't appear in women?!" Sirius despaired, shooting a betrayed look down at Harry as Hermione and Roxanne both gaped at him and the twins just about fell down laughing. "Sh-he was really convincing!"

"Y-you – you slept with a _man_?" Hermione almost sounded homophobic, if it weren't for the fact that the entire western hemisphere knew Sirius to be... profound and rather shameless in his perusal of members of the opposite sex.

"Merlin, no, I didn't sleep with him!" Sirius looked disgusted and repulsed at the notion, and the twins roared with laughter. "We just – you know… kissed, and stuff."

"'And stuff?'" Roxanne challenged, wagging her eyebrows suggestively, and Sirius dry-heaved at the thought.

"I had to walk in on them making out in order to set things straight." Harry explained, and Hermione rolled her eyes at his terrible pun. "Admittedly, he was a pretty decent transvestite, but the lack of, you know, twin 'personalities' really should've tipped you off."

"Yeah, yeah, have fun at my expense." Sirius grumbled, strolling down the stairs to where Hermione had sat down next to Harry again. "I'll be the one laughing when Hermione turns out to be a man instead."

The entire room paused to process that profoundly illogical statement, and Sirius grinned at them all, mistakenly perceiving the lack of retorts for an awed, stunned silence at his ingenuity.

Oo0oO

"Right," Roxanne began a few hours later, after Sirius' ego had been stomped back into the ground, Remus' giant cake disappeared in the span of a few minutes into the giant, gaping black holes they called their stomachs, and the chess match – which ended up taking little over four bloody hours – ended, for the first time since Harry had known him, in a loss for Ron. "Mum said I had to be back around nine, and since it's half past ten, I'd say she's been annoyed enough." She grinned cheekily, shrugging on her coat, previously lying forgotten on the back of a chair.

"I'll go with you." Remus smiled, standing up to stretch his cramped legs. "I'm sure your mother wouldn't want you walking around this late by yourself."

"Naw, ya don't have to worry about little old me." Roxanne shook her head, beaming out from under her crimson beanie at the Werewolf. "I'll be fine, I've been out on my own before."

Pretty much the entire room frowned at her, and she rolled her eyes. "Seriously, people, you need to stop worrying so much. What, will I step out of the door and find an axe-murderer chopping my head off?"

"Yes, but you're twelve." Hermione protested, and Roxanne shot them a dry look.

"You were sucking each others' faces off when you were thirteen." She snorted. "Hell, your boyfriend slew a basilisk when he was my age. Your point?"

Hermione, bless her, still looked like she wanted to object, but Sirius stepped in with a grin. "Come, come, children, let's not fight over who was not allowed to do the most things they still did when they were young, because I'd most certainly blow you all out of the water."

Remus blinked thoughtfully, before nodding. "He's not lying, you know."

"Personally, I don't really see the problem." Sirius shrugged. "I mean, what'll be weirder; your daughter coming home, or your daughter coming home accompanied by a ragged and harried-looking old man who looks suspiciously like a flasher–"

"Yes, I think we get your point, Sirius." Remus interrupted quickly, looking vaguely ill. "If you're sure, then it's probably alright for you to go alone, Roxanne."

"Good!" Roxanne said, beaming about the room. "Glad we got that settled. Goodbye, people – I'll see you at Hogwarts!" And with that, she slipped out of the tent, away into the dead of night.

"…Are you sure she'll be fine?" Remus asked Sirius quietly, and the dogfather shot him a strange look. "I mean, we've been at World Cups in the past, with James. It got pretty wild sometimes, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember all right." Sirius sniggered, probably reminiscing about one of his past girlfriends, and Remus sighed, shaking his head.

"Never mind. I don't know why I even bothered asking."

On the other side of the room, Hermione huffed as she sat back down next to Harry. "Honestly, it's dangerous out at night when there's so many drunks walking around."

"There are?" Harry blinked, glancing at the front door curiously. "I hadn't even noticed."

"Honestly, slurred speech? Dragging feet? Blurry expressions? Any of those ring a bell?"

"…Well, now that you mention it, I guess, yeah." Harry blinked again, shrugging. "Does it really matter, though? She's smart, I'm sure she'll be able to find her way back home without problems."

Hermione heaved a sigh. "I guess."

"Plus, if you want to know who really doesn't care, look at Ron." Harry felt the corners of his mouth pulling up into a grin as he gazed at his friend, who was lying face-down on the chess board in a small puddle of his own drool, and Hermione rolled her eyes, smiling a little as she turned back to face Harry –

"There's a riot!" Someone outside yelled suddenly, and everyone blinked. "A riot, on the next campsite over! They're lighting tents on fire!" Harry's eyes widened, and beside him, Hermione gasped. "Torturing people!"

"That's where the Weasleys are!" Hermione yelped, shooting upright. "And Roxanne, too! We've got to do something!"

"No, we don't." Sirius interrupted before she could go on, drawing affronted looks from the children, though Remus was nodding along. "The Aurors will handle things. There's more than a few of them, scattered around in their own tents, and they're not incompetent. Plus, how do we know he's speaking the truth? For all we know, this could just be a prank –"

There was a sudden, loud, soul-chilling scream, and Harry instantly froze, his heart constricting painfully as he recognised the owner of the voice without problems.

Roxanne.

"Harry!" Hermione gasped, having recognised the voice much the same, sounding panicked and worried as he jumped up and started running for the door. "Harry – what are you doing?! The Aurors – they'll get her –"

Mouth set in a grim line, Harry threw open the door and ran, ignoring his girlfriend's calls completely, because this was a friend, a young girl, and she was getting hurt – _tortured_ – for no reason at all, and if he left her now for no other reason than staying safe (and since when had he ever done anything as ridiculous as that?); he honestly didn't know if he could life with himself after something like that.

_Sorry, Hermione._

"Harry – Jesus Christ –!" Hermione yelled, standing up to go running after her boyfriend – "What the fuck are you _doing_ –?!"

But suddenly Remus was there, grasping her arms with strength she'd honestly forgotten he was supposed to have as Werewolf. "No, you're not leaving, as well." He was frowning deeply, showing no signs of stress as Hermione fought to escape from his grip. "It's… _bad_ that he's out there – and that's putting it lightly, if the riot is as big as I suspect it is – but it'll only be worse if we have to run after two people instead."

Hermione wasn't ready to give up just yet, though, and tugged heavily on her arms, to no avail – "Let go – Harry – he's out there – the Aurors won't come in time –!"

"I know my godson didn't pick an airhead for a girlfriend, so stop pretending to be one." Sirius called over from where he was hurriedly stomping down the stairs, clasping something that looked like an elaborate brace around his arm. "I, being a full-grown adult rather than a teenager, will go after him, and you'll stay right here where you can't get lost and, you know, die or something." He grinned at her furious and stupefied face, giving a friendly wave as he slipped out of the door. "Be right back."

It slid shut with an audible click.

Remus let Hermione go without another word, casting a heavy glance at the origin of the sound – of Roxanne's scream – and for a moment, she simply stood in the room, suddenly unsure of what to do.

"…I think you're seeing it wrong, Hermione." Ron offered, apparently having woken up from his nap during the tumult, and Hermione clenched her hands as she moved over to the fridge. "Imagine we're all a part of Harry's Treacle Tart." Both Remus and Hermione paused at the unexpected topic, but Ron didn't pay attention to it – or rather, it might be more appropriate to say that he didn't notice it.

"You're a large piece, Hermione." He continued. "'Bout a quarter of the whole tart. Sirius is a little smaller than that, and me and Remus hover around a sixth. Then, everyone else he's grown close to – the girl, Roxanne, right? And some of the Professors, probably, and maybe even Ginny, and mum and dad and the Quidditch team – makes up the rest of the tart, each with their own little pieces. And when someone – Malfoy, probably – comes up and threatens to take one of those pieces away from him, he'll go to the ends of the earth to keep them from actually taking it."

Hermione was stunned into silence for a few seconds, and a small part of her mind was wondering since when Ron's mind was capable of conjuring up more than half-assed homework and theories on what was for dinner that evening.

"I'd say that just about covers it." Remus nodded, sitting down next to the redhead with pumpkin juice in his hand and a serene smile on his face. "Very well said, Ron. And as I already said, Sirius is a more than capable wizard, even after spending over a decade in Azkaban. He won't let Harry get injured."

Blowing out a sharp breath, Hermione grabbed her own glass of pumpkin juice and let herself fall restlessly into the chair next to Remus. "He'd better not." She muttered.

Oo0oO

The clearing the Wizards were standing in was a complete mess. Destroyed tents laid scattered around them, the small bits and pieces that hadn't already been annihilated still burning violently. The tents that were still upright were aflame, as well; a few that had been enchanted with indestructibility were almost like giant pillars of light, bathing the entire area in near-unbearable heat.

Roxanne herself laid in the middle, her small frame writhing in what must have been insufferable pain, while those men – no, not men; they were monsters, nothing less – stood and laughed at her suffering. A few had sheathed their wands and were making obscene gestures with their hips, sharing a snigger when the second-year let out a particularly loud scream.

Harry saw red.

His wand whipped through the air as he stood from where he'd been crouching – "STUPEFY!" – and one particularly vigilant Wizard managed to whip up a large shield within moments; only one of the men, caught just outside the wide protection, fell over, his wand scattering to land near the edge of the clearing.

Barely a second later, a clear dozen bright green spells were flying through the air towards his position, some a rather lot more accurate than others, and Harry flung himself behind one of the tents, cursing himself for standing around like an idiot, watching the results of his spell instead of casting another.

Suddenly, his cover was aflame, and as the flames threatened to lick at his clothes Harry cursed, and – "Depulso!" – the deadly game of cat-and-mouse began.

The Gryffindor boy's dorm had often romanticised the art of battle; even Harry himself had been guilty of this, imagining grand sieges of castles with Ron, and Seamus, and even pacifist Dean and unnaturally shy Neville. They would have hundreds of Wizards on their side as they charged, filling the sky with hellfire and brimstone as thunderstorms bore down on their opponents and a particularly inspiring track by the Weird Sisters thundered in their eardrums.

But this – no, this was something else.

It was almost completely silent. Spells went searing past as close as half a foot away without a sound, and only the panicking, thudding beat of Harry's own heart was to be heard as a giant rock was sent flying to his position, and he dove out of the way of certain death. Oh, he could occasionally get a spell in edgewise, too; and whenever there was a chance to glimpse the Wizards' encampment, his eyes would automatically search for Roxanne, whose tiny, writhing frame still laid in between, having fallen completely silent only a little while after the battle had begun.

But only two of over a dozen spells had even connected, and each of the Wizards effected by said Stupefies had merely been resurrected again by their allies. And perhaps, if he knew some, he could have used more heavy-duty spells, such as fifth-year Bombarda; but the only combat oriented-spells he'd learned were from when he still figured Sirius to be a mass-murdering traitor, and those were the ones geared towards single combat, such as Stupefy and Expelliarmus, where they couldn't simply be covered by their allies in order to wake up again or simply pick up their wand from where they'd dropped it.

Suddenly, a spell came from Harry's left, and he cursed, throwing himself aside and inadvertently into the path of a different spell in order to evade; the spell clipped his shoulder, and he grit his teeth in pain as blood started flowing instantly, bathing his robes in scarlet.

"Oh? Did we managsh to – hic! – get li'l Potter?" The voice sounded slurred, and more drunk than Harry had ever heard anyone; and he shot the Wizard a nasty glare, fighting through the pain to raise his wand again –

_A grey beard – bright purple robes, fluttering furiously – a wand, a differentwandnotmywand – explosions, death, blood everywhere – a high, manic cackle – "AVADA KEDAVRA!" – death, gore, fear grief painsufferingdarkness–_

And in the midst of flinging a spell at the monster in front of him, Harry blacked out.

* * *

…_**Well, that turned around real quick, dinnit?**_

_**Erm – I don't really know what to say, here. Originally, I put Roxanne in to serve some other purpose, but she's kind-of become redundant, and I didn't wanna just retcon her like she was some random bit of Warhammer fluff, so I had to think of some way to, you know, get rid of her without making it seem stupid. **_

_**But this wasn't all that bad of a purpose, I don't think. The character development should fit nicely into the Triwiz Tournament, and the tragedy we all know will happen at the end, and it allows for the story to progress into the grey, not-too-happy-but-not-dark-either place where it belongs.**_

_**I dunno. Lemme know what you guys think.**_

_**Oh, and FIY, no, Hermione doesn't have precognitive powers. It was more of an I-can-feel-it-in-my-bones type of thing, ya feel?**_

_**Review replies are listed at the bottom of the giant A/N filling up the next 'chapter'.**_

_**-The Baron**_


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